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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

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** 


v  . 


Feeding  the  Pet  Lamb.— (Page  46.) 


(1) 


m^^m 


THE 


PET   LAMB, 


OTHEE     STOEIES 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LIPPINCOTT,   GKAMBO    &   CO. 

1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 
LIPPINCOTT,    GRAMBO    &    CO, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania^ 


- 


CONTENTS 


Ellen  and  her  Lesson Page    9 

The  Nursery  Tale. 17 

The  Little  Voices 18 

Going  to  Bed  at  Night 29 

Brother  and  Sister 30 

Anecdote  of  a  Turkish  Judge 31 

A  Visit  to  the  Wild  Wood 34 

Self-restraint 38 

A  Truth 43 

Good  Girls 44 

The  Pet  Lamb 46 

Usefulness «*■*. 55 

A  Good  Rule W£ 58 

(Vii) 


4    Jj-.^  J 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

The  Boy  Who  Stole 59 

Mary 68 

The  Two  School-girls;  or,  a  Lesson  of  Forgiveness.  70 

To  My  Brother 81 

The  Toiling  Bees 82 

The  Journey 83 

A  Picture 90 

Love  One  Another  92 

Morning,  Noon  and  Night 97 

Anecdotes  of  Dogs 99 

The  Child's  Prayer  for  the  New  Year 108 

"Seamed,  and  Scarred,  and  Wounded" 110 

A  Forest  Scene  in  the  days  of  WicklifFe 117 

The  Way  to  be  Happy 126 

The  Rain 127 


THE  PET  LAMB,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


ELLEN  AND  HER  LESSON. 

"  Ellen,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  "  what  do  you 
study  at  school  this  term  ?" 

66 1  study  geography  and  arithmetic,"  said 
Ellen,  "  as  I  did  last  term,  and  I  have  now 

(9) 


10         ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON. 

commenced  the  History  of  the  United 
States." 

"Have  you,  indeed?  Then  I  suppose 
you  can  tell  me  when  America  was  disco- 
vered by  Columbus  ?" 

Ellen  looked  rather  puzzled,  but  at  length 
said,  she  believed  it  was  in  1592. 

"Oh,  no!  Ellen,"  said  her  sister  Sarah, 
who  was  sitting  by,  "  it  was  in  1492." 

"  In  what  year  did  our  forefathers  land  at 
Plymouth  f 

"In  1720,"  said  Ellen,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  drawn  a  bow  at  a  venture,  and 
hoped  the  arrow  might  hit  right. 

"Wrong  again,  Ellen,"  said  her  sister; 
"it  was  1620." 

"  I  can't  remember  all  those  hard  names 
and  dates,"  said  Ellen;  "it  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  wish  I  had  a  good  memory ;  but 
I  can't  help  it.,r 


ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON.         11 

"  Then  you  have  a  poor  memory,  Ellen," 
said  Aunt  Mary,  with  a  very  serious  look. 
"I  was  not  aware  of  this  before,  and  am 
very  sorry  to  hear  it ;  for,  as  there  are  so 
many  things  which  it  is  both  pleasant  and 
useful  to  remember,  it  is  certainly  a  great 
misfortune.  But  how  came  it  to  pass  that 
such  a  bright-looking  girl  as  you  should  be 
deficient  in  such  an  important  faculty  of  the 
mind?" 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
the  ringing  of  the  school-bell,  and  Ellen  and 
her  sister  were  soon  on  their  way  to  school. 
When  the  children  came  home  after  school, 
their  aunt  said  to  Ellen,  "  Do  you  remember 
when  your  aunt  Taylor  and  your  cousin 
Emily  called  here  ?  It  was  in  the  fall,  I 
think." 

"No,  aunty;  you  are  mistaken.*  It  was 
in  December.     I  remember  well ;  for  it  was 


12  ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON. 

the  week  before  Christmas.  Cousin  Emily 
wore  a  beautiful  bracelet,  and  I  remember 
wishing  that  some  friend  would  give  me  one 
just  like  it,  for  a  Christmas  present." 

"  Can  you  remember  how  she  was  dressed  ?" 
"  Yes,  perfectly.  She  wore  a  scarlet  merino 
dress  and  blue  sack;  a  straw  hat,  trimmed 
with  cherry  color,  and  lined  with  pink,  and 
a  pair  of  blue  gaiters.  Did'nt  she  look 
sweetly  ?" 

"  Can  you  tell  how  your  aunt  was  dressed  ?" 
"  She  wore  a  black  silk  dress,  and  black 
velvet  mantilla,  and  a  sherd  hat.     I  can 
think  just  how  they  both  looked." 

"You  can  remember  more  than  I  can," 
said  Sarah;  "I  am  sure  I  could  not  have 
mentioned  a  single  article  they  had  on." 

"  It  relieves  my  mind,"  said  aunt  Mary, 
"  to  find  that  Ellen  has  a  good  memory  some- 
times.   I  thought  if  her  memory  was  as  poor 


ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON.  13 

as  she  represented  it  to  be  this  morning,  it 
was  a  great  misfortune.  But,  my  dear,  if 
you  can  remember  when  your  aunt  and 
cousin  called,  and  how  they  were  dressed, 
why  can  you  not  remember  when  America 
was  discovered  ?  Do  you  think  your  memory 
is  so  formed  as  to  recollect  some  things  very 
distinctly,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  in- 
capable of  remembering  other  things  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  why  it  is,"  said  Ellen. 
"  I  do  not  deny  but  I  can  remember  some 
things  well  enough." 

"  It  is  very  plain,  my  dear,  that  the  fault 
is  not  in  your  memory.  You  can  readily 
remember  anything  that  interests  you.  What 
you  need  is,  not  a  better  memory,  but  greater 
interest  in  the  studies  you  pursue.  If  I  were 
to  request  you  to  repeat  the  story  which  I 
related  to  you  last  Saturday  afternoon,  would 
you  not  be  able  to  do  it  ?" 


14         ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON. 

"I  think  I  should,  aunt.  I  recollect  it 
very  well.  It  was  so  interesting,  I  could  not 
well  forget  it." 

"  The  difficulty  is,  when  you  study,  you 
try  to  send  your  memory  off  in  one  direc- 
tion, to  collect  and  retain  facts  in  history 
and  other  branches  of  study,  while  the  other 
faculties  of  your  mind  are  employed  about 
something  else.  Now  this  will  not  succeed. 
Memory  will  not  work  alone.,  Place  your 
whole  mind  upon  your  studies,  become  inte- 
rested in  them,  and  your  memory  will  per- 
form its  proper  work  faithfully ;  there  is  no 
doubt  about  that." 

"  But  how  shall  I  become  so  interested  in 
my  studies  V 

"  By  giving  to  them  all  the  energies  of 
your  mind.  Had  you  become  really  in- 
terested in  the  history  of  the  discovery  of 
America  by  Columbus ;  had  you  permitted 


ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON.  15 

your  mind  to  follow  him  in  the  discourage- 
ments and  perils  of  this  heroic  undertaking, 
in  imagination,  standing  with  him  before 
kings  and  princes,  and  hearing  them  ridicule 
his  plans  as  visionary,  and  refuse  the  aid  he 
sought  to  obtain  from  them ;  and  when  his 
untiring  perseverance  had  overcome  every 
obstacle,  and  his  little  fleet  had  proceeded 
far  in  their  untrodden  path  to  an  unknown 
world ;  had  you  stood  by  his  side  as  he 
anxiously  strained  his  eyes  to  look  into  the 
far-off  distance,  if  perchance  he  might  dis- 
cover land,  while  officers  and  crew  were 
threatening  even  his  life,  if  he  would  not  at 
once  return — had  your  mind  really  entered 
into  this  scene,  there  would  have  been  little 
danger  of  your  forgetting  the  date  of  an 
event  which  should  be  so  interesting  to  every 
American.  Do  not  charge  a  fault  upon  your 
memory  of  which  it  was  never  guilty ;  but 


16         ELLEN    AND    HER    LESSON. 

rather  say,  'I  bestowed  so  little  attention 
upon  the  subject  that  I  cannot  recollect.' " 

"  But  do  not  some  people  have  much 
better  memories  than  others  ?"  said  Sarah. 

"  No  doubt  people  differ  in  this  respect, 
as  well  as  every  other;  but  I  have  often 
observed  that  those  very  persons  who  com- 
plain so  much  of  a  poor  memory,  continually 
give  evidence  that  they  can  remember  many 
things  as  well  as  any  one.  There  are  but 
very  few  whose  memories  fail  to  retain  that 
which  really  interests  them.  If  you  wish 
to  remember  important  facts  and  events, 
you  must  be  careful  how  you  allow  trifles  to 
occupy  your  attention,  to  the  exclusion  of 
things  more  important." 


B. 

A. 

At  the 

(A  spr± 
The  eldest  l 

The  younge 
Cried  the  fairy,  4 
girl, 

Pure  gems  from  your  n^ 
But  whenever  you  utter  a  word,  ^ 

From  your  tongue  shall  a  serpent 

V.  —  B 


..er,  who  had 

xiow  much  she 

Oood  angels  know ; 

^ught  her  a  new  delight 

dieir  bright  beaming  faces  at 

jer-door ;  and  every  evening,  when 

^ere  asleep,  she  would  steal. softly  to 


THE    LITTLE    VOICES.  19 

their  bedside,  and,  as  she  watched  their  still 
faces,  would  pray  the  dear  Father  in  heaven 
to  keep  their  hearts  always  warm  and 
loving. 

Their  names  were  Mary  and  Fanny  — 
Mary  was  two  years  older  than  Fanny,  and 
a  serious,  gentle  child,  whom  everybody 
loved  and  fondled.  But  Fanny  was  the 
joyous  little  sunbeam  of  her  father's  house, 
full  of  fun  and  frolic  from  morning  till  night. 
The  good  mother  did  all  she  could  to  make 
her  children  happy  and  useful.  She  longed 
to  keep  their  hearts  pure  and  innocent,  and 
tried  to  surround  them  with  holy  and  beau- 
tiful influences. 

One  day,  as  Mary  and  Fanny  sat  by  their 
mother's  side,  she  pointed  out  to  them  the 
beautiful  landscape  from  their  window,  and 
told  them  that  everything  they  looked  upon 
was  an  emblem  of  God's  love  to  his  children. 


20  THE    LITTLE    VOICES. 

They  lived  in  a  beautiful  spot ;  a  range  of 
glorious  mountains  stretched  far  away  to  the 
south,  and  a  winding  river  lay  between. 
There  were  thick  forests  on  all  sides,  and 
sweet  birds  sang  in  the  deep  shade.  All 
these  things  spoke  to  the  heart  of  the  mo- 
ther and  filled  it  with  gratitude,  and  she 
longed  to  make  them  dear  and  familiar  to 
her  children. 

She  had  often  spoken  to  them  of  the  voice 
of  conscience,  which  God  had  placed  within 
their  breasts,  to  teach  them  when  they  did 
right  or  wrong ;  and  she  had  begged  them 
to  listen  to  this  little  voice,  and  be  led  by 
its  warnings,  if  it  spoke  ever  so  faint.  But 
now  she  wanted  her  little  girls  to  listen  to 
the  voices  about  them,  to  those  outside  their 
own  breasts,  because  she  thought  these  would 
make  them  still  happier,  and  would  perhaps 
make  the  little  voice  of  conscience  knock 


THE    LITTLE    VOICES.  21 

the  louder.  So  she  told  them  when  they 
walked  out  in  the  woods  and  fields,  to  look 
about  them,  to  watch  and  see  how  every 
little  bird  built  her  nest,  to  listen  to  all  the 
sounds  they  heard  in  earth,  air,  or  water? 
and  to  let  everything  teach  them  how  to  be 
better  and  happier. 

Mary  and  Fanny  remembered  these  things ; 
like  other  children  they  were  sometimes 
naughty ;  but  in  the  main  they  tried  to  be 
good,  and  were  always  kind  and  loving  to 
each  other  and  to  their  parents. 

One  bright  Saturday  afternoon  the  little 
girls  went  to  visit  their  aunt,  who  lived 
about  two  miles  distant.  Their  father  gave 
them  a  ride,  and  they  were  to  walk  home 
before  dark.  They  had  a  pleasant  afternoon, 
and  returned  home  in  fine  spirits.  Not  far 
from  their  house  was  a  deep  thick  wood, 
through  which  they  always   had   to  pass. 


22  THE    LITTLE    VOICES. 

Mary  and  Fanny  had  always  delighted  in 
this  shady  little  wood ;  they  had  often  gone 
there  of  a  hot  summer's  day  to  feel  the  cool 
air  among  the  pines,  and  to  play  at  hide  and 
seek.  But  now,  tired  with  their  afternoon's 
frolic,  they  walked  slowly  and  silently  along, 
each  little  sister's  arm  around  the  other. 
"Fanny,"  said  Mary,  suddenly,  "let  us  try 
to  hear  the  little  voices  mother  was  telling 
us  about  the  other  day,  and  see  if  they  will 
mean  anything  to  us." 

"  Yes,  dear,  so  we  will,"  said  Fanny;  "  mo- 
ther will  be  so  pleased  to  think  we  remem- 
bered it."  They  walked  on  a  few  minutes, 
very  silently.  Only  the  low  murmuring  of 
the  wind  among  the  pines  fell  upon  Mary's 
ear.  u  It  is  so  solemn,"  said  she,  "  it  makes 
me  think  of  the  church-organ,  when  it  plays, 
*  The  Lord  is  in  His  holy  temple.'  Dear 
Fanny,  I  think  He  is  here  too." 


THE    LITTLE    VOICES.  23 

"  Mary,"  said  Fanny,  "  do  you  see  that 
little  wren,  hopping  about  there,  and  twit- 
tering at  such  a  rate  ?  I  have  been  watch- 
ing her  some  minutes,  and  never  did  I  see 
such  a  bustling  little  thing.  She  is  making 
a  nest,  I  am  sure,  and  she  does  seem  so 
happy  about  it.  Every  minute  or  two  she 
opens  her  little  throat,  and  chirps  away  as 
though  she  thought  it  mighty  pleasant ;  and 
she  says  to  me,  just  as  plainly  as  if  she  could 
speak,  '  Fanny,  next  time  you  help  your 
mother  make  the  beds  or  tend  the  baby,  do 
be  happy  about  it,  and  do  it  as  if  you  loved 
to;'  and  I  will,  you  busy  little  wren,"  said 
Fanny,  as  she  went  away. 

"  And  I  '11  remember  it  too,"  said  Mary ; 
"  it 's  a  great  deal  better  to  do  things  as  if 
one  loved  to.  It  can't  be  very  pleasant  for 
mother  to  see  us  helping  her  as  if  we  only 
did  it  because  we  must." 


24  THE    LITTLE    VOICES. 

Soon  they  came  to  a  merry  little  brook, 
that  went  dancing  and  leaping  over  the 
stones  and  rippling  in  the  sunshine.  Fanny 
laid  her  ear  on  the  ground  beside  it  and 
listened.  "  Sister,  do  you  know  there  was 
once  many  little  drops  of  water,  a  long 
way  oft"  there  among  the  mountains/'  said 
she,  waving  her  little  hand,  "and  they 
felt  lonesome,"  —  here  Mary  laughed, — 
"and  so  they  thought  they  would  all  run 
down  hill  together  and  make  a  little  brook, 
and  have  a  good  time,  dancing  over  the 
stones,  and  making  music.  And  when  we 
are  lonesome,  I  think  the  little  brook  would 
tell  us  to  find  some  other  little  girls,  and 
dance  and  play,  and  make  music.  What  do 
you  hear,  Mary  ?" 

"  Only  the  wind  among  the  pines ;  they 
tell  me  to  be  still  as  they  are,  and  God  will 
send  me  little  birds  and  soft  winds  to  make 


THE    LITTLE    VOICES.  25 

music  for  me — hark  !  there  is  a  woodthrush ; 
how  long  and  clear  his  note  is ;  how  sweetly 
he  sings." 

"  I  wonder  if  the  angels  sing  like  that," 
said  Fanny;  "you  know  we  heard  aunt 
Sally  say  the  other  day,  that  they  play  on 
golden  harps  and  sing." 

"  I  don't  believe,"  said  little  Mary,  "  that 
they  play  on  harps  all  the  time,  or  sing.  I 
guess  they  sing  as  mother  does  when  she 
puts  baby  to  sleep,  or  as  you  do,  Fanny,  at 
your  work,  because  you  can't  help  it ;  only  a 
great  deal  more  beautifully." 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  angels 
sing,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Do  you  ?  Why  it  makes  me  happy 
enough  to  hear  mother  and  you  and  the 
birds  sing.  Listen  again,  there  he  goes. 
Oh,  you  beautiful  thrush  !" 

And  now  the  wood  was  fuller  than  ever 


26  THE    LITTLE    VOICES. 

of  little  voices ;  but  Fanny  and  Mary  knew 
they  must  go  home  and  come  another  time 
to  hear  the  rest.  Fanny  stooped  down  to 
pick  a  bunch  of  violets  for  her  mother. 
"  You  have  no  voices,  my  little  posies,"  said 
she,  "  but  if  you  could  speak,  I  am  sure  you 
would  tell  me  to  be  a  modest,  quiet  little 
girl,  and  stay  in  just  such  mossy  green 
places  as  this." 

u  Do  hear  that  dismal  iohiji-poor-will^  said 
Mary,  as  she  left  the  wood.  "  It  makes  me 
laugh  now ;  but  the  other  night  when  I  had 
been  naughty,  and  heard  him  in  the  wood, 
I  was  quite  provoked  to  hear  him  make 
such  doleful  noises.  It  was  just  as  if  he 
kept  telling  me  that  I  deserved  to  be  pun- 
ished. I'll  never  forget  you,  whip-poor- 
will,"  said  Mary ;  "  and  I  hope  you  '11  al- 
ways tell  me  when  I'm  naughty." 

The  children  were  now  at  their  own  door : 


THE    LITTLE    VOICES.  27 

Mary  flew  to  kiss  her  father,  and  Fanny  to 
take  the  baby  from  her  mother's  arms,  while 
she  finished  her  Saturday's  sewing.  "And 
oh !  you  blessed  little  Tommy,"  said  she,  as 
she  tossed  him  up  to  look  at  the  red  sunset 
through  the  trees,  "I'll  never  forget  how 
the  little  wren  in  the  wood  told  me  to  tend 
a  dear  little  brother  like  you  ?" 

That  night,  when  her  children  were  in 
bed,  the  mother  went  as  usual  to  look  at 
them.  But  they  were  not  asleep,  and  they 
threw  their  arms  around  her  neck  and  drew 
her  face  close  to  theirs.  "  Oh,  mother !"  said 
little  Mary,  "  we  feel  so  happy,  and  we  want 
to  show  our  Father  in  heaven  that  we  thank 
him  for  letting  us  hear  so  many  pleasant 
little  voices."  "And  mother,"  said  Fanny, 
"  how  can  such  little  girls  as  we  are,  thank 
him  best  ?" 

Their  mother  told  them  that  there  were 


28  THE    LITTLE    VOICES. 

many  wretched  little  children  who  never 
played  in  the  sunshine,  nor  heard  the  sweet 
birds  sing;  that  God  loved  these  miserable 
little  ones,  as  much  as  He  loved  them  ;  and 
if  they  wanted  to  show  their  love  to  Him, 
they  would  be  kind  and  loving  to  all  who 
needed  their  love. 

"Fanny,"  said  Mary,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  let  us  go  on  Monday  and  take  little 
sick  Mabel  Gray  to  ride  in  baby's  wagon. 
"We  will  take  her  to  a  nice  cool  place  under 
the  pine  trees,  and  tell  her  about  the  little 
voices,  and  make  her  as  happy  as  ever  we 
can." 

And  they  did  so  ;  and  as  Fanny  and  Mary 
grew  up,  their  mother  and  all  their  friends 
rejoiced  at  their  words  and  deeds  of  love  to 
all  the  unfortunate.  They  became  minister- 
ing angels  to  all  who  needed  their  kindness. 
And  when  they  were  atone  they  did  not  feel 


GOING    TO    BED    AT    NIGHT.         29 

afraid  of  the  voice  from  the  world  or  of  the 
voice  within ;  for  loving  spirits  seemed  to 
encircle  them,  and  every  tone  they  heard 
spoke  to  them  of  the  eternal  melodies. 


GOING  TO  BED  AT  NIGHT. 

Eeceive  my  body,  pretty  bed ; 
Soft  pillow,  0  receive  my  head ; 

And  thanks,  my  parents  kind : 
Those  comforts  who  for  me  provide, 
Their  precepts  still  shall  be  my  guide, 

Their  love  I'll  keep  in  mind. 

My  hours  misspent  this  day  I  rue, 
My  good  things  done,  how  very  few ! 

Forgive  my  fault,  0  Lord ! 
This  night  if  in  thy  grace  I  rest, 
To-morrow  may  I  rise  refreshed, 

To  keep  thy  Holy  Word. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER 

Little  sister,  come  away, 
And  let  us  in  the  garden  play, 
For  it  is  a  pleasant  day. 

I  will  take  my  bat  and  ball, 
You,  your  pretty  waxen  doll. — 
Do  not,  sister,  let  it  fall. 

(30; 


ANECDOTE   OF   A   TURKISH  JUDGE.  31 

But  the  fruit  we  will  not  pick ; 
That  would  be  a  naughty  trick, 
And  very  likely  make  us  sick. 

Nor  will  we  pluck  the  pretty  flowers 
That  grow  about  the  beds  and  bowers, 
Because,  you  know,  they  are  not  ours. 

And  much  I  hope,  we  always  may 
Our  very  dear  mamma  obey, 
And  mind  whatever  she  may  say. 


ANECDOTE  OF  A  TURKISH  JUDGE. 

A  story  is  told  of  an  Oriental  merchant, 
who,  at  his  death,  left  his  property  to  three 
sons.  According  to  this  merchant's  will  the 
seventeen  horses  belonging  to  the  estate 
Vere  to  be  divided  between  the  sons  in  such 
a  manner  that  the  eldest  should  receive  one 


32  ANECDOTE   OF   A   TURKISH  JUDGE. 

half  of  them,  the  second  one  third,  and  the 
youngest  one  ninth  of  the  whole. 

When  the  sons  came  to  make  the  division 
of  the  property,  they  found  it  impossible  to 
comply  with  the  conditions  of  the  will  in 
regard  to  the  horses  without  sacrificing  one 
or  more  of  the  animals.  Being  thus  puz- 
zled, they  repaired  to  the  cadi,  or  judge  of 
the  town  for  his  assistance. 

After  reading  the  will  carefully,  the  cadi 
said  it  was  such  a  difficult  question  that  he 
required  time  for  deliberation,  and  requested 
them  to  return  after  two  days,  when  he 
would  give  his  decision.  At  the  appointed 
time  they  made  their  appearance,  when  the 
judge  said : 

"  I  have  carefully  considered  your  case, 
and  find  that  I  can  make  such  a  division  of 
the  seventeen  horses  among  you  as  will  give 
each  more  than  his  strict  share,  and  yet  not 


ANECDOTE   OF   A   TURKISH   JUDGE.  33 

one  of  the  animals  shall  be  injured.  Are 
you  content  ?" 

"  We  are,  0  judge,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Bring  forth,  then,  the  seventeen  horses, 
and  let  them  be  placed  in  the  yard,"  said 
the  cadi.  The  animals  were  brought  in, 
and  the  judge  ordered  his  groom  to  place  his 
own  horse  with  them.     He  then  bade  the 

eldest  brother  count  the  horses. 

d 

"  They  are  eighteen  in  number,  0  judge," 
lie  said. 

"  I  will  now  make  the  division,"  observed 
the  cadi.  "  You,  the  eldest,  are  entitled  to 
half;  take,  then,  nine  of  the  horses.  You, 
the  second  son,  are  to  receive  one  third; 
take,  therefore,  six;  while  to  you,  the 
youngest,  belongs  the  ninth  part,  viz.  two. 
Thus  the  seventeen  horses  are  divided  among 
/you ;  you  have  each  more  than  your  share, 
and  I  may  take  my  own  steed  back  again." 

V.  — c 


34  A  VISIT   TO   THE  WILD  WOOD. 

"  Mashallah !"  exclaimed  the  brothers,  with 
delight ;  "  0  cadi !  your  wisdom  equals  that 
of  our  lord,  Soleiman  Ibu  Dacod." 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  WILD  WOOD. 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  spring, 
When  plants  and  trees  were  blossoming, 
When  perfumes  floated  in  the  air, 
And  songsters  warbled  everywhere, 
That  forth,  by  wood  and  stream,  we  went, 
On  pleasant  sights  and  scenes  intent. 

And  well  Eugene  and  Francis  knew 
Where  wild  flowers  in  abundance  grew, 
And  leading  on,  with  rapid  pace, 
Well  nigh  forsook  me  in  the  race, 
Until  tit*  enchanted  dell  they  spied, 
And  tarried  by  a  streamlet's  side. 


A  VISIT   TO   THE   WILD  WOOD.  35 

Along  the  bank  the  flowers  were  strewed, 
They  peeped  out  from  the  neighboring  wood, 
And  richly  colored  all  the  ground, 
Upon  a  gently  rising  mound — 
Blue,  white,  and  yellow  sought  to  vie 
In  charming  the  delighted  eye. 

Sweet  Innocence  in  patches  grew, 
On  thread-like  stem  with  eye  of  blue, 
And  forth  from  many  a  mossy  bed, 
The  Colt's-foot  peered  its  golden  head ; 
While  Violets,  and  Clay  Ionian  s  fair, 
Exhaled  their  sweetness  on  the  air. 

The  Liverwort  bloomed  in  the  wood, 
Pink,  lilac,  white,  and  purple  hued, 
The  meek  Anemone  bent  down 
Upon  her  slender  stalk  of  brown, 
Her  form  so  graceful,  that  with  ease 
She  bowed  to  every  passing  breeze. 


36  A  VISIT   TO   THE   WILD   WOOD. 

From  roots  of  trees  we  pushed  away 
The  old,  dead  leaves  that  thickly  lay, 
And  soon  the  sweet  Arbutus  found, 
Trailing  its  modest  vine  around, 
And  shedding  from  its  lovely  flower, 
A  perfume  fit  for  queenly  bower. 

A  rich  and  sweet  bouquet  was  ours, 
Of  those  fair,  fragant  wild  wood  flowers, 
So  on  a  mossy  trunk  we  sat, 
And  gazed  at  this  one,  then  at  that, 
In  each  admired  some  beauty  new, 
And  praised  their  color,  shape  and  hue. 

We  wonder'd  at  the  skill  and  power 
Displayed  in  every  tree  and  flower, 
And  bless'd  the  love,  that,  day  by  day, 
Had  scattered  flowers  round  our  way, 
And  sitting  in  that  quiet  wood, 
We  knew  and  felt  that  God  was  good. 


A   VISIT   TO   THE   WILD  WOOD.  37 

Then  back  we  traced  our  homeward  way, 
Now,  listening  to  a  warbler's  lay, 
Then,  chasing  butterflies  along, 
With  happ}'  heart  and  merry  song, 
Or,  watching  in  a  quiet  nook, 
For  fishes  sporting  in  the  brook. 

While  squirrels  now  and  then  we  spied, 
As  off  to  some  ground  hole  they  hied, 
Till  hours  sped  on — and  to  our  place, 
We  came,  with  happy  heart  and  face, 
Delighted  with  our  sportive  hours, 
And  ramble  'mid  the  wild  wood  flowers. 


38  SELF-RESTRAINT. 


SELF-KESTRAINT. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  self-restraint, 
mother?"  asked  Maria,  an  inquisitive  little 
girl,  upon  hearing  this  word  used. 

Her  mother  was  very  glad  to  hear  her  ask 
the  question ;  for  good  as  Maria  generally 
was,  yet  she  had  this  one  fault,  she  was 
sometimes  discontented,  and  often  cried 
when  she  was  obliged  to  do  without  any- 
thing which  she  wishod  for.  And  still  it 
must  be  so  in  the  world.  We  often  cannot 
obtain  what  we  desire.  We  often  have  in 
our  possession  something  that  we  take  plea- 
sure in,  and  it  is  soon  taken  from  us  again. 
It  is,  therefore,  very  necessary  that  we  should 
be  prepared  for  this  from  our  youth  up. 

So  her  mother  answered,  "It  would  be 
self-restraint  if  you  were  to  give  up  your 


SELF-RESTRAINT.  39 

favorite  game  of  pawns,  with  your  playmate 
Margaret,  between  school  hours  to-day." 

"  But  wherefore  ?"  said  the  little  girl,  and 
hung  her  head  sorrowfully;  "I have  always 
been  allowed  to  play." 

"  Neither  do  I  forbid  you  now,"  answered 
her  mother ;  "  nay,  it  shall  rest  entirely  with 
yourself  whether  you  play  to-day  with  Mar- 
garet or  not." 

"  But  of  what  use  can  this  be  to  me  ?" 
said  Maria? 

"  Of  this  use,"  replied  her  mother ;  "  that 
you  will  learn  to  exercise  control  over  your- 
self, so  that  you  will  be  able  to  give  up  any- 
thing, or  deny  yourself  an  amusement  of 
which  you  are  fond,  as  soon  as  it  is  neces- 
sary." 

"  But  it  is  not  now  necessary,  dear  mo- 
ther." 

"  True ;  but  if  we  wait  until  a  thing  is 


40  SELF-RESTRAINT. 

necessary,  we  shall  not  then  have  the  time 
to  prepare  ourselves  for  it." 

Maria  was  silent,  and  stood  for  a  while  as 
if  lost  in  thought.  She  understood  in  part 
her  mother's  meaning,  but  could  not  com- 
prehend it  all. 

Her  mother  now  said,  "  Would  you  like 
to  hear  a  story,  Maria,  by  which  you  may 
learn  how  important  it  is  not  to  accustom 
ourselves  to  depend  too  much  upon  our 
pleasures  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  mother !"  replied  Maria. 

"  There  was  once,"  begun  her  mother,  "  a 
little  girl,  whose  silly  nurse  feasted  her  every 
day  upon  dainties.  She  thus  became  so 
accustomed  to  them,  that  even  when  she 
was  grown  up,  she  could  not  help  longing 
for  them,  and  could  not  keep  her  hands  from 
them,  whenever  they  came  in  her  way.  it 
was  in  vain  that  she  was  warned  by  her 


SELF-RESTRAINT.  41 

elder  brother,  who  advised  her  to  wean  her- 
self in  time  from  such  dainties,  as  she  could 
not  always  obtain  them.  The  little  girl 
thought  that  there  was  plenty  of  time  for 
that,  and  never  tried  to  restrain  herself. 
She  at  last  left  her  father's  house,  to  live  as 
a  domestic  in  a  pious  family.  Here  every- 
thing was  conducted  with  great  order,  and 
dainties  and  delicacies  were  rarely  seen. 
What  did  she  do  then?  She  took  her 
pocket-money,  and  daily  bought  almonds, 
figs,  and  confectionery,  until  her  money  was 
all  gone.  Her  fondness  for  sweet  things  had 
by  this  time  grown  still  stronger,  and  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  her  to  resist  it.  As 
she  had  now  no  more  money  of  her  own, 
she  at  first  sold  some  articles  of  clothing; 
and  when  these  were  gone,  she — I  shudder 
as  I  relate  it — she  stole  from  her  mistress. 
But  when  is  any  wicked  deed  committed 


42  SELF-RESTRAINT. 

that  is  not  sooner  or  later  brought  to  light? 
Her  crime  was  discovered,  and  the  unfortu- 
nate girl  was  punished  by  confinement  in 
prison." 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  sad  story !"  said  Maria  with 
a  sigh. 

"  Sad  enough,  indeed,"  answered  her  mo- 
ther; "and  all  this  happened  because  the 
maiden  had  not  learned  in  time  to  deny  her- 
self the  gratification  of  a  desire  before  it  had 
become  a  habit.  Do  you  know  now,  dear 
Maria,  why  I  advised  you  not  to  play  with 
Margaret  to-day?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother,"  replied  Maria,  "  I  will 
give  up  my  favorite  game  for  to-day,  and 
for  to-morrow  also;  nay,  until  I  can  indulge 
in  it,  and  refrain  from  it  as  often  as  I  wish." 

Her  mother  embraced  her,  and  was  de- 
lighted with  this  cheeerful  and  earnest  reso- 
lution.    And  still  greater  was  her  delight, 


A    TRUTH.  43 

when  she  saw  that  Maria  kept  her  word. 
In  the  course  of  time,  it  became  no  task  to 
Maria  to  deny  herself  a  pleasure,  and  this 
preserved  her  from  many  a  sorrow.  Happy 
the  maiden  who  follows  her  example ! 


A  TEUTH. 

Each  mighty  forest  tree, 
Each  little  flowret  bright. 

Is  a  creature  of  God's  love, 

Which  he  cares  for  day  and  night. 

If  they  are  athirst, 

He  bids  the  raindrops  fall : 
For  God,  our  Father,  ne'er  forgets 

His  creatures,  great  or  small." 


GOOD  GIRLS, 


Two  good  little  girls,  Marianne  and  Maria, 

As  happily  lived  as  good  girls  could  desire ; 

And  though  they  were  neither  grave,  sullen, 
nor  mute, 

They  seldom  or  never  were  heard  to  dis- 
pute. 

(44) 


GOOD    GIRLS.  45 

If  one  wants  a  thing  that  the  other  could 

get, 
They  never   are   scratching  or  scrambling 

for  it, 
But  each  one  is  willing  to  give  up  her  right ; 
They'd  rather  have  nothing,  than  quarrel 

and  fight. 

If  one  of  them  happens  to  have  something 

nice, 
Directly  she  offers  her  sister  a  slice ; 
Not  acting  like  some  greedy  children  I  Ve 

known, 
Who  would  go  in  a  corner  and  eat  it  alone. 

"When  papa  or  mamma  had  a  job  to  be  done, 
These  good  little  girls  would  immediately 

run, 
And  not  stand  disputing  to  which  it  belonged, 
And  grumble  and  fret,  and  declare  they  were 

wronged. 


46  THE    PET    LAMB. 

"Whatever  occurred  in  their  work  or  their 

play, 
They  were  willing  to  yield,  and  give  up  their 

own  way; 
Then  let  us  all  try  their  example  to  mind, 
And  always,  like  them,  be  obliging  and  kind. 


THE   PET  LAMB. 

{See  Frontispiece.) 

The  following  pleasant  little  story  about  a 
pet  lamb  was  written  by  Miss  C.  W.  Barber, 
and  published  in  the  Schoolfellow  : — 

"  This  is  a  cold  morning,"  said  Mrs.  John- 
son, as  she  laid  down  her  work,  and  went 
towards  the  window  —  "  there  was  a  sharp 
frost  last  night,  and  remnants  of  it  are  still 
to  be  seen  upon  the  ground ;  but  Willie,  my 
love,  where  is  your  satchel?  It  is  nearly 
half-past  seven,  and  as  you  have  full  a  mile 


THE    PET    LAMB.  47 

to  walk  to  school,  it  is  high  time  you  were 
on  the  way." 

The  boy  addressed  was  a  fine  black-eyed 
fellow,  with  a  round  face  and  curly  hair, 
which  naturally  parted  upon  one  side.  When 
his  mother  commenced  speaking,  he  was 
constructing  a  rat-trap,  with  which  he  hoped 
to  imprison  an  old  offender,  who  troubled 
"  mammy,"  the  cook,  by  nibbling  things  in 
the  closet,  eating  holes  through  the  meal- 
bags,  and  sundry  other  misdemeanors ;  but 
he  quietly  closed  his  knife,  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket,  and  gathered  up  the  pine  sticks 
that  he  had  been  whittling.  This  done,  he 
took  his  cap  and  satchel,  and  walked  into 
the  by-path  leading  from  Mr.  Johnson's  resi- 
dence to  the  Male  Academy,  without  utter- 
ing a  word. 

"  William  is  a  good  boy,"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Johnson,  mentally ;  "  I  never  have  to  speak 


48  THE    PET    LAMB. 

to  him  twice ;  some  boys  of  his  age  would 
have  left  this  warm  parlor,  and  the  rat-trap, 
very  reluctantly  upon  this  bitter  morning, 
to  say  the  least ;  but  my  little  son  always 
does  as  he  is  told  without  murmuring."  A 
complacent  smile  settled  upon  her  lip ;  and 
resuming  her  employment,  she  sewed  for 
half  an  hour  in  silence. 

At  length,  she  was  aroused  by  the  bleating 
of  a  lamb  directly  in  front  of  her  window — 
she  looked  up,  and  saw  Willie  returning  with 
his  arms  filled  by  a  pretty,  soft,  snowy  lamb ; 
his  satchel  was  suspended  from  one  shoulder, 
and  hung  dangling  against  his  back- — his 
cheeks  glowed  until  they  were  almost  purple 
in  the  morning  air. 

"  Why,  my  son,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Johnson,  meeting  him  at  the  door ; 
u  I  thought  you  started  to  school  ?" 

"  0,  mamma !  see  what  a  pretty  lamb  — 


THE    PET    LAMB.  49 

isn't  it  a  pretty  creature  ?"  said  he,  without 
heeding  her  question  as  he  stopped,  and 
kneeling  upon  the  floor,  deposited  his  bur- 
den. "  I  'm  going  to  have  it  for  rny  lamb — 
my  pet  lamb ;  but  the  poor  thing  is  almost 
frozen  to  death.  Do  you  think  that  I  can 
make  it  live,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,  my  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson,  stooping  down  and  laying  her  hand 
upon  its  white  head.  "  Where  did  you  get 
it,  Willie  ?"  "  I  found  it  beside  its  dam  in 
the  pasture,  mamma.  The  old  sheep  is 
dead,  and  I  knew  that  if  I  left  the  little 
lamb,  it  would  die  too;  so  I  concluded  to 
take  it  in  my  arms,  and  turn  back  home 
with  it.  May'nt  I  stay  at  home  to-day, 
mamma,  and  take  care  of  it  V 

"  Mammy  will  look  after  it  better  than 

you  can,"  said  the  judicious  mother  —  the 

loss  of  a  single  recitation  at  school  is  to  be 
V.  — D 


50  THE    PET    LAMB. 

avoided,  if  possible  —  I  am  not  willing  you 
should  lose  your  place  in  your  class  for 
trifles." 

"  But,  mamma,  this  is  not  a  trifle,"  said 
William,  in  a  supplicating  tone;  "the  life 
of  a  lamb— a  pretty  little  pet  lamb,  is  by  no 
means  to  be  disregarded." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  gratify  my 
little  son,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  removing  her 
hand  from  the  lamb  to  his  head,  while  a 
pleasant  smile  came  to  her  lips ;  "  but  I  do 
not  think  it  best  for  him  to  stay  at  home  to- 
day ;  I  will  look  after  this  little  lamb,  and 
mammy  shall  feed  it,  and  revive  it,  if  possi- 
ble, by  the  kitchen  fire — my  Willie  must  go 
to  school  now;  he  wTill  find  his  favorite 
nicely  cared  for  when  he  returns." 

Willie  did  not  like  to  go ;  the  effort  cost 
him  much  more  than  leaving  the  rat-trap 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  had  done ; 


THE    PET    LAMB.  51 

but  he  felt  that  his  mother  knew  what  was 
best.  He  called  mammy,  and  committing 
his  charge  into  her  hands,  started  again  for 
school. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  the  lamb 
began  to  revive.  He  leaped  out  of  the 
basket  where  mammy  had  placed  him,  and 
came  near  running  into  the  fire.  He  frisked 
about  and  wagged  his  little  short  tail  at  a 
wonderful  rate.  Had  there  been  any  chil- 
dren upon  the  lot,  they  would,  doubtless, 
have  gone  into  an  ecstacy  of  delight  over 
his  movements;  but  Willie  was  an  only 
child,  and  no  one  but  Mrs.  Johnson  and 
mammy  were  there  to  view  his  gambols. 

When  Willie  came  home  at  five  o'clock, 
it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have 
seen  him,  he  was  so  pleased  with  his  prize. 
He  fed  it  with  warm  milk,  fresh  from  the 
cow — he  tied  a  blue  ribbon  around  its  snowy 


52  THE    PET    LAMB. 

neck,  and  named  it  Tom.  He  looked  for- 
ward impatiently  to  the  arrival  of  Saturday, 
when  he  declared  that  he  would  build  a  nice 
warm  pen  for  it  to  sleep  in  at  nights.  Even 
after  dark,  when  supper  had  been  eaten,  and 
the  family  retired,  he  kept  on  jabbering 
about  Tom  and  his  prospects. 

Willie's  life,  for  many  months  afterwards, 
was  not  by  any  means  a  lonely  one ;  for  out 
of  school,  one  companion  always  attended 
him.  Tom  became  as  much  attached  to  his 
master  as  a  lamb  is  capable  of  becoming; 
he  followed  him  everywhere  —  he  leaped 
over  hedges  and  ditches,  and  rambled  with 
Willie  all  about  the  cottage  grounds. 

But,  finally,  he  became  very  strong — two 
little  horns  started  out  of  his  head,  and  he 
showed  a  great  propensity  to  push  every- 
thing and  everybody  over  that  cam*  in  his 
way.     Even  the  faithful  old  negro  who  had 


THE    PET    LAMB.  53 

taken  such  excellent  care  of  him  during  his 
infancy,  when  Willie  was  in  school,  now 
declared  that  "  Massa  Willie  must  hab  dat 
sheep  killed ;  she  darsen't  go  to  de  smoke- 
house at  all — Tom,  first  she  knew,  bunt  her 
square  anto  the  smoke-pit."  Mrs.  Johnson, 
too,  frequently  declared  herself  very  much 
annoyed  by  his  pranks ;  she  intimated  that 
he  must  be  either  slaughtered  or  sold. 

But  Willie  had  no  such  ideas ;  he  loved 
Tom  quite  too  well  to  see  him  in  the  hands 
of  a  sheep-owner,  or  bloody  butcher ;  he  still 
called  him  to  accompany  him  in  his  walks, 
and  fed  him  in  the"  pastures. 

But,  one  day,  Tom  chanced  to  be  straying 
by  a  cluster  of  laurel-bushes  in  full  blossom 
— perhaps  the  beauty  of  the  shrub  attracted 
his  attention ;  for  he  commenced  nibbling 
the  shining  green  leaves  with  a  wonderful 
relish.     Willie   was   busy   looking   after   a 


54  THE    PET    LAMB. 

bird's-nest,  and  did  not  observe  what  he  was 
about.  He  little  thought  that  his  pet  lamb 
was  eating  poison — but  so  the  sequel  proved. 

When  Willie  went,  as  usual,  to  pen  Tom 
for  the  night,  he  found  him  swollen  and 
dying  —  his  tongue  protruded  from  his 
mouth,  and  it  was  black,  with  here  and 
there  specks  of  foam  upon  it.  Willie  sat 
down,  and  pulling  his  head  into  his  lap, 
wept  bitterly;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  hardly  have  mourned  the  death  of  a 
brother,  or  a  sister,  more  deeply. 

The  next  day,  Willie  dug  a  grave  for  Tom 
in  the  pasture,  back  of  the  white  cottage ; 
he  placed  two  old  grey  stones  at  its  head 
and  at  its  foot,  to  mark  the  spot;  but  he 
never  planted  a  flower  there  —  it  made  him 
too  sad ;  for  it  brought  back  to  his  memory 
the  bright  tints  of  the  beautiful  flowering 
shrub,  whose  glossy  leaves  had  poisoned  his 
pet  lamb. 


USEFULNESS.  55 

USEFULNESS. 

"  Mother,"  said  little  Annie  Kay, 

"  Why  must  I  sit  and  sew  ? 
"Why  must  I  dust  the  room  each  day  ? 

I  'm  sure  I  do  not  know. 

"  You  say  that 't  is  less  trouble 

For  you  these  things  to  do, 
Than  spend  your  time  in  teaching  me ; 

And  that  I  'hi  sure  is  true. 

"  Then,  mother,  let  me  run  and  play ; 

The  little  birds  are  singing ; 
The  lark  is  on  his  upward  way; 

The  bee  his  honey  bringing. 

"  The  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower 
Koams  o'er  the  smiling  meadow ; 

The  little  brook  sings  on  among 
Sunshine  and  silent  shadow." 


56  USEFULNESS. 

"And  he  who  would  be  glad  as  they, 

Must  be  as  useful  too," 
The  mother  said,  as  to  her  side 

Her  child  she  fondly  drew. 

"  Not  for  himself  the  light-winged  lark 

Sings,  as  he  upward  soars, 
But  for  his  mate  and  nestlings  dear,' 

His  song  of  love  outpours. 

u  Not  for  himself  the  laden  bee 
Flies  home  on  weary  wings ; 

My  Annie  knows  what  honey  sweet 
From  fields  and  woods  he  brings. 

"  The  butterfly  bursts  from  her  tomb, 
And  like  her  mate  the  flower 

Brings  forth  her  offspring  to  adorn 
Another's  summer  hour. 


USEFULNESS.  57 

"  The  thirsty  man,  wearied  with  toil, 

Blesses  the  little  rill ; 
Like  heavenly  truth  its  waters  sweet. 

Gladness  and  life  distil. 


"  The  happiest  man  who  lives  on  earth, 

Or  in  the  angel  host, 
Is  he  who  loves  his  neighbor  best, 

And  labors  for  him  most. 

"  My  little  Annie  to  my  arms 

The  Lord  has  kindly  given, 
That  I  may  guide  her  infant  steps, 

And  lead  her  up  to  heaven." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Annie  with  sparkling  eyes, 

"  Our  little  Charlie's  there ; 
And,  mother,  may  I  go  there  too, 

His  love  and  joy  to  share  ?" 


58  A    GOOD    RULE. 

"  But  none,  my  Annie,  ever  live 

In  the  bright  world  above, 
But  those  who  here  on  earth  have  striven 

Others  to  help  and  love." 

"  0,  then,"  said  Annie,  "  I  '11  try  each  day 

A.  useful  child  to  be, 
And  gladly  do  the  little  tasks 

That  you  appoint  for  me." 


A  GOOD  RULE. 

'T  IS"  well  to  walk  with  a  cheerful  heart 

Wherever  our  fortunes  call, 
With  a  friendly  glance  and  an  open  hand, 

Arid  a  gentle  word  for  all. 
Since  life  is  a  thorny  and  difficult  path, 

Where  toil  is  the  portion  of  man, 
We  all  should  endeavor,  while  passing  along, 

To  make  it  as  smooth  as  we  can. 


THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE 


59 


THE  BOY  WHO  STOLE. 


1 


m 

-M 


Oh,  children !  did  you  ever 
see  a  sight  like  this  ? — A  boy 
in  the  hands  of  a  police-officer, 
taken  up  for  stealing.  It  is 
dreadful  to 
think  of.  Poor 
boy!  He  does  n't 
look  as  if  he  had 
a  kind  father  or 
mother  to  pro- 
vide for  him ; 
or,  any  one  to 
care  what  be- 
comes of  him. 
How  thankful  you  should  be 
for  good  and  loving  parents, 
who  teach  you  to  be  truthful 
and   honest;    and   who   guard 


60  THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE. 

you  from  the  thousand  dangers  that  lie  ahout 
your  paths. 

Never,  dear  children,  be  tempted  to  take 
even  a  pin  that  does  not  belong  to  you  ;  be 
the  article  ever  so  small,  you  are  a  thief  if 
you  take  it.  A  thief!  What  a  dreadful 
word! 

The  poor,  unhappy  boy,  whom  you  see  in 
the  picture,  was  once,  no  doubt,  an  honest 
boy,  and  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  being 
called  a  thief;  but,  in  some  evil  hour,  he 
was  tempted  to  take  an  apple,  a  penny,  a 
piece  of  cake  or  an  orange  that  was  not  his 
own.  No  one  found  him  out;  he  grew 
bolder,  and  stole,  it  may  be,  a  knife  or  a  top, 
from  his  playmate.  And  then,  step  by  step,  he 
went  on  from  bad  to  worse ;  and  see  where 
the  end  is !  Now  he  has  been  caught — and 
an  officer  is  taking  him  to  the  Mayor,  and 


THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE.  61 

the  Mayor  will  send  him  to  prison,  or  the 
House  of  Kefuge.    Oh!  it  is  sad  to  think  of. 

I  have  read  somewhere  in  Mr.  Wood- 
worth's  Youth's  Cabinet,  I  believe,  the  story 
of  a  little  boy  who  was  tempted  to  take 
some  candy  which  his  father  and  mother 
had  laid  by  in  a  drawer,  to  be  divided  be- 
tween him  and  his  sister  Alice.  The  boy's 
name  was  John,  and  their  father  used  to  call 
them,  pleasantly,  Jack  and  Gill.  Their 
father,  Mr.  Page,  had  been  from  home,  and 
when  he  returned  he  brought  a  nice  package 
of  candy.  It  so  happened  that  Jack  was 
alone  in  the  room  with  this  candy. 

"  His  father, was  out  on  the  farm,  and  his 
mother  and  little  sister,  together  with  the 
baby,  had  gone  to  see  a  neighbor,  and  Jack 
was  alone,  as  I  have  said,  with  the  candy. 
So  he  seized  the  opportunity  to  pull  out  the 
drawer  and  take  a  look  at  it.     It  certainly 


62  THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE. 

did  look  very  pretty  indeed ;  the  red  and 
the  white,  twisted  and  plaited  all  so  nicely 
together,  and  those  rich  lemon  drops.  Jack 
was  particularly  fond  of  the  lemon  drops, 
and  he  gazed  very  wishfully  upon  the  trea- 
sure lying  there. 

" \ 1  wonder,'  said  he  to  himself,  '  mother 
did  n't  lock  this  drawer.  Somebody  might 
take  the  candy ;  but  who  is  there  to  take  it 
but  me  ?  Jane  is  gone  to  carry  the  baby, 
and  I'm  left  to  be  housekeeper,  while  they're 
away.  These  lemon  drops  look  very  sweet 
— I  don't  think  mother  would  miss  two  or 
three  of  them.  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't.' 
And  so  Jack  took  up  one  or  two  of  the 
lemon  drops,  and  was  about  putting  them  in 
his  mouth,  when  he  stopped  a  moment  and 
reflected. 

" '■  Mother  won't  miss  these,'  said  he, 
6  I  'm  sure — only  a  couple  of  them ;  but  then 


THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE.  63 

if  she  was  here,  I  would  n't  take  them  with- 
out her  leave,  and  I  wouldn't  like  her  to 
know  I  took  them  any  how.  She  has  left 
the  drawer  unlocked,  and  that 's  as  much  as 
to  say,  she  has  no  fears  about  Jack,  for  he 's 
to  be  trusted.  Suppose,  now,  I  take  these 
lemon  drops.  I  shan't  be  able  to  look  mo- 
ther in  the  face  the  next  time  Uncle  Isaac 
comes  to  our  house,  and  mother  tells  him, 
"Jack's  such  a  trusty  boy."  No,  I  like 
lemon  drops,  but  I  can't  do  this  to  get  them ; 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  it  looks  very  much 
like  stealing,  to  be  taking  them  all  so  secretly, 
and  choosing  such*  as  I  am  sure  could  not  be 
missed.  Why,  it  would  be  stealing,  as  sure 
as  the  world — and  I  feel  a  good  deal  like  a 
thief  already.  I  'm  sure  if  papa  or  mamma 
was  to  come  in  at  that  door  now,  I  would 
feel  as  mean  as  a  thief." 

So  Jack  put  back  the  lemon  drops,  and 


64  THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE. 

closed  the  drawer,  and  sat  down,  and  tried 
to  read  the  Swiss  Family  Eobinson,  which 
one  of  his  schoolmates  had  lent  him ;  but  it 
was  all  in  vain ;.  he  could  n't  read,  nor  could 
he  keep  this  affair  of  the  lemon  drops  out 
of  his  mind.  He  sat  there  with  his  face 
upon  his  hand,  thinking  about  it,  and  feeling 
pretty  sad,  when  the  sound  of  his  sister's 
cheerful  voice  was  heard  coming  up  the 
walk,  signifying  that  his  mother  had  returned. 
Jack  tried  to  appear  cheerful,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  but  it  was  a  poor  effort,  and 
so  he  left  the  house  and  went  out  to  the 
stable,  and  patted  old  Sorrel  awhile  on  the 
the  neck;  for  he  loved  the  horse  dearly,  but 
he  didn't  fancy  staying  about  where  his 
mother  was,  at  all. 

"  Toward  night,  however,  he  came  into 
the  house,  still  feeling  very  heavy  and  dull, 
as  if  a  weight  of  some  kind  were  pressing 


THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE.  65 

upon  him.  He  couldn't  talk,  and  could 
hardly  have  laughed  at  anything.  Little 
Alice  was  frolicking  about,  and  had  just 
made  a  bargain  with  her  papa  to  give  him  a 
kiss  apiece  for  half-a-dozen  lemon  drops, 
and  was  already  fulfilling  her  part  of  the 
bargain  at  a  great  rate,  in  advance.  Mr. 
Page  got  the  lemon  drops,  and  paid  his  debt 
by  putting  two  in  each  hand  and  two  in  her 
mouth.  'And  here,  Jack/  said  he,  'are 
half-a-dozen  for  you,  who  sit  there  as  sober 
as  your  grandfather/ 

" '  Don't  wan't  any,'  said  Jack. 

" 6  Don't  want  any !'  said  his  papa,  in  reply. 
'  Why,  what 's  got  into  the  boy  ?  Don't  you 
love  them  ?' 

" '  Yes,  sir.' 

"  '  Well,  here  they  are;  they  are  for  you, 
and  nobody  else,'  answered  his  papa. 

"  Still  Jack  sat  there  as  solemn  and  as 

V.— E 


66  THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE. 

sober  as  his  old  grandfather,  sure  enough, 
and  did  not  seem  inclined  to  accept  them. 

" '  Give  them  to  me/  said  the  roguish 
little  Gill ;  6  brother  Jack  don't  love  candies. 
I  '11  eat  them.' 

"  '  No,  no,'  answered  her  father,  somewhat 
seriously,  ' there's  something  the  matter 
here.     Are  you  sick,  Jack  ?' 

" i  No,  sir/  said  the  poor  boy. 

"  £  Well,  what  in  the  world— rhas  anybody 
offended  you  ?'  asked  Mr.  Page. 

" '  No,  sir ;  but  I  've  offended  myself/  was 
the  calm  reply. 

" '  What 's  the  matter,  my  son  V  said  Mr. 
Page,  very  tenderly. 

"  Jack  could  stand  it  no  longer'  but  burst 
into  tears,  and  cried  a  long  time,  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.  His  papa  knew  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  he  saw,  too,  that 


THE    BOY    WHO    STOLE.  67 

Jack's  conscience  was  doing  a  severe  but 
wholesome  work,  and  so  he  said  nothing. 

"  As  soon  as  Jack  had  his  cry  out,  as  the 
children  say,  he  told  his  pipa  and  mamma 
all  about  it,  and  how  mean  and  bad  he  felt 
for  indulging  such  inclinations,  when  they 
thought,  too,  that  he  was  a  boy  to  be  trusted, 
in  sight  and  out  of  sight. 

"  '  You  may  just  depend  upon  it,  mother,' 
said  Jack,  c  I  '11  not  do  so  again,  for  it  makes 
a  body  feel  entirely  too  much  out  of  conceit 
with  himself.  And  now,  papa,'  continued 
Jack,  wiping  his  eyes,  with  an  honest  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  '  now,  papa,  it's  all 
over,  and  I  '11  take  those  lemon  drops,  if  you 
please.' 

66  6  Here  they  are,  Jack,'  said  Mr.  Page, 
c  and  here  is  my  hand,  too;  for  the  evidence 
you  have  just  given  me  of  a  truly  honest 
heart  is  worth  a  bushel  of  lemon  drops.' " 


68  MARY. 

MAE    .  v* 

Thou  art  going  from  us,  Mary, 

As  a  bud  falls  from  the  tree ; 
Thou  art  leaving  warm  hearts,  Mary, 

And  their  blessings  go  with  thee. 
As  the  snow-drop  in  the  woodland, 

As  the  violet  in  the  dell, 
We  shall  miss  thy  modest  loveliness, — 

Sweet  Mary,  fare  thee  well ! 

We  shall  miss  thy  pleasant  voice,  Mary, 

As  the  tone  of  some  wild  bird ; 
And  shall  listen  for  thy  name,  Mary — 

That  blessed  household  word. 
As  a  moonbeam  from  the  window, 

As  a  brooklet  in  its  swell, 
We  shall  miss  thy  gentle  presence, — 

Sweet  Mary,  fare  thee  well ! 


MARY.  60 

The  children  love  thee,  Mary, 

And  their  hearts  must  thrill  with  pain. 
When  they  find  thy  pillow  empty, 

And  call  for  thee  in  vain. 
Thy  name,  thy  dear  name,  Mary, 

Was  the  first  our  boy  could  say; 
We  shall  not  forget  it,  Mary, 

When  thou  art  far  away. 

Thou  art  going  home,  my  Mary — 

God  bless  thee  evermore ; 
Thou  shalt  be  welcome  back  again, 

As  the  sunbeam  to  our  door. 
'Come  when  the  flowers  are  blooming, 

And  the  wild  birds  are  in  song ; 
For  though  you  leave  us,  Mary, 


It  must  not  be  for  long. 


Mrs.  Stevens. 


THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 


THE  TWO  SCHOOL  GIRLS; 
OR,         LESSON   OF   FORGIVENESS. 

group  of  little  girls 
were  standing,  one 
clear  day  in  summer, 
on  the  green  in  front 
of  their  school-house. 
They  were  in  earnest 
discussion,  and  long 
and  loud  were  the 

voices,  while  one  modest-looking  child  in  the 

centre  was  trying  in  vain  to  wipe  away  the 

tears,  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  would 

roll  over  her  cheeks. 

"Never  mind,  Mary,"  said  one,  "we  all 

know  you  ought  to  have  been  at  the  head ; 

and  that  you  would  have  been,  if  it  had  not 

been  for  Margaret  Nelson." 


a 


THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS.  71 

"  I  feel  sorry  I  lost  my  place,"  said  Mary, 
but  I  am  not  crying  for  that.  I  loved 
Margaret,  and  I  thought  she  loved  me ;  but 
I  do  not  like  to  think  that  any  one  could 
have  been  so  selfish  and  mean."' 

"  You  might  have  let  me  tell  Mrs.  Carter, 
and  I  know  you  would  not  have  lost  your 
place  then,  Mary," 

"  Oh,  no,  Ellen ;  I  do  not  want  to  disgrace 
Margaret  in  Mrs.  Carter's  eyes.  It  is  bad 
enough  that  you  happened  to  hear  her,  and 
to  know  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  single  girl  in 
our  class  who  will  speak  to  her  after  this, 
unless  you  do." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  try  to  do  right  about  it," 
answered  Mary. 

"  I  '11  leave  her  no  peace,"  said  Lucy,  "  for 
I'll  talk  to  her  every  chance  I  can  get;  and 
I  only  wish  I  could  make  my  voice  sound  as 


72  THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 

if  it  came  from  all  corners  of  the  room,  like 
a  ventriloquist,  and  she  should  hear  all  sorts 
of  sounds." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  would  do  any  good, 
Lucy.     It  is  best  to  say  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  will  not  promise  to  say  nothing  about 
it,"  replied  Anna ;  "  for  I  do  not  think  I  can 
help  speaking." 

"Well,"  answered  Mary,  "we  shall  not 
be  in  season  for  our  dinners,  if  we  talk  here 
much  longer.     We  must  go." 

Mary  and  Anna  turned  down  the  road, 
and  the  other  girls  went  in  an  opposite 
direction. 

"  Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked 
Anna.  "  You  surely  will  not  treat  Margaret 
just  as  you  did  before,  will  you?" 

"  I  ought  to  do  it  \  but  I  cannot  say  that 
I  shall.  I  hope  I  shall  be  able.  But  it  is 
very  hard  not  to  make  any  difference ;  and, 


THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS.  73 

in  spite  of  myself,  my  maimer  or  my  tone 
might  show  I  felt  injured,  if  my  words  did 
not.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  think,  last  Sun- 
day, when  Miss  Deane,  my  Sunday  School 
teacher,  told  us  about  forgiveness  of  injuries, 
that  I  should  have  to  practice  it  so  soon." 

"  If  you  do,"  said  Anna,  "  you  will  be  the 
first  school-girl  that  ever  did.  But*you  are  a 
dear,  good  girl,  Mary,"  added  Anna,  kissing 
her ;  "  and  we  all  know  where  your  place 
should  be,  if  Mrs.  Carter  does  not.  Good- 
bye." And  Anna  ran  across  the  street, 
leaving  Mary  on  the  door-steps. 

Mary  stood  in  the  large  entry  closet,  while 
she  was  putting  away  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
and  tried  to  feel  kindly  to  Margaret ;  but  it 
was  hard  work,  and  Mrs.  Coleman  saw,  when 
she  raised  her  eyes,  as  Mary  entered  the 
parlor,  that  her  face  was  clouded. 

"  Well,  dear,"  she  said,  inquiringly,  "  tell 


74  THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 

me  all  about  it.  Your  face  tells  a  history, 
though  I  am  not  quite  skilful  enough  to  read 
it  exactly." 

"  I  can  tell  you  the  story,  mother,  but  I 
think  I  had  better  not  tell  you  the  name  of 
the  person,  except  I  will  say  that  she  is  one 
of  my  best  friends.  She  was  next  to  me  in 
the  class,  and  I  always  thought  she  did  not 
care  to  get  above  me ;  at  least,  she  has  often 
told  me  so.  To-day  there  was  a  hard  ques- 
tion in  arithmetic,  and  I  asked  her  the  ex- 
planation of  it  in  recess,  because  I  had  seen 
her  ask  Mrs.  Carter  just  before,  and  knew 
she  must  have  told  her  the  right  one.  She 
gave  me  the  explanation,  and  two  or  three 
of  the  other  girls  listened  and  heard  it,  too. 
The  question  came  to  me,  and  I  explained 
it  as  she  had  told  me.  Mrs.  Carter  said  it 
was  wrong,  and  passed  it  to  her  without 
waiting  to  hear  what  I  had  to  say.    She  did 


THE    TWO    SCHOOL- GIRLS.  75 

it  correctly,  and  went  above  me.  I  thought 
I  must  have  mistaken  what  the  girl  had 
said,  though  I  did  not  see  how  I  could  have 
done  so ;  but  Sarah  Lee  was  standing  by  the 
desk  when  Mrs.  Carter  explained  the  sum ; 
and  she  showed  it  to  one  of  the  girls  who 
had  heard  what  my  friend  had  said.  This 
girl  was  coming  to  tell  me;  but  recess  was 
over  before  she  could  find  me.  Sarah  ac- 
cused her  of  telling  me  the  wrong  way,  when 
school  was  done ;  and  all  the  girls  who  were 
near  said  she  looked  very  guilty,  and  mutter- 
ed something  to  herself,  and  then  hurried  off 
as  fast  as  possible." 

"  Could  any  child  do  such  a  mean,  selfish 
action  ?     I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"  I  tried  not  to  believe  it,  mother,  but  it 
must  be  true.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  any 
one  would  do  it." 

"  Did  you  tell  Mrs.  Carter,  after  school  ?" 


76  TIIE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 

"No,  mamma.  I  did  not  want  her  to 
know  it.  The  girls  were  going  to  tell  her, 
but  I  begged  they  would  not.  I  feel  troubled 
about  it,  and  grieved  that  any  one  I  love 
should  do  so." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  angry,  instead 
of  grieved  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  mamma.  I  was  very  angry 
at  first,  but  I  do  not  feel  at  all  as  I  did 
then." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  this  has  happened ;  but 
I  want  you  to  try  to  do  right  about  it.  Try 
to  treat  her  as  if  she  had  not  injured  you." 
Mary  promised  to  do  her  best. 

At  school,  in  the  afternoon,  Margaret 
studiously  avoided  Mary,  and  turned  her 
head  whenever  she  saw  her  approaching. 
When  school  was  out,  she  ran  home  without 
waiting  for  any  of  the  girls. 

A  matter  so  generally  known  in  school 


THE    TWO    SCIIOOL-GIKLS.  77 

could  not  fail  to  reach  the  ears  of  Mrs. 
Carter.  In  fact,  she  heard  it  the  very  next 
day.  She  was  walking  home  behind  Sarah 
Lee  and  Lucy,  when  she  heard  the  latter 
say,  "  She  is  an  abominable  cheat,  and  I  wish 
she  would  leave  the  school." 

"  Who  is  such  a  cheat  ?"  she  asked 

The  girls  turned,  and  seeing  Mrs.  Carter, 
looked  very  much  confused ;  but  on  her  re- 
peating the  question,  Lucy  answered :  "  I 
Wanted  to  tell  you  all  about  it  yesterday, 
but  Mary  Coleman  would  not  let  me.  But, 
as  you  have  asked,  now  I  shall  tell  you." 
And  she  related  the  whole  affair. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  surprised  and  grieved. 
"  Why,"  she  inquired,  "  was  Mary  unwilling 
that  I  should  know  it  ?  She  would  certainly 
have  kept  her  place." 

"  Because  she  said  Margaret  was  injured 
in  the  good  opinion  of  the  scholars,  and  she 


78  THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 

did  not  wish  her  to  lose  your  good  opinion, 
too." 

At  the  corner  of  the  street,  Mrs.  Carter 
bade  the  scholars  "  good  morning,"  and  went 
home,  forming  a  plan  to  punish  Margaret. 
At  school,  that  afternoon,  she  called  Mar- 
garet to  her,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  her. 
The  girl  returned  to  her  seat  weeping  vio- 
lently, but  shook  off  the  hand  Mary  placed 
on  her  shoulder,  rather  seeming  angry  at 
being  found  out,  than  sorry  for  having  been 
so  deceitful  and  selfish. 

More  than  a  week  passed  by,  and  Mar- 
garet still  avoided  Mary.  One  day,  in  re- 
cess, however,  Mary  saw  her  friend  crying, 
as  if  in  great  trouble.  She  went  to  her,  and 
kindly  asked  her  the  cause  of  her  tears. 
Her  tone  was  so  pleasant  and  sympathising, 
that  Margaret  said  she  could  not  perforin 
her  questions  in  arithmetic,  and  that  none 


THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS.  79 

of  the  girls  would  show  her.  Asking  the 
teacher  was  out  of  the  question,  as  she  was 
engaged  with  a  gentleman.  Mary  sat  down 
by  her,  and  helped  her.  She  was  finishing 
the  last  question  when  the  bell  rang. 

After  school  she  asked  Margaret  to  walk 
with  her,  and  the  two  were  soon  chatting 
as  pleasantly  as  ever.  As  they  came  near 
home,  on  their  return,  Margaret  grew  silent, 
and  scarcely  answered  her  companion ;  but, 
just  as  they  were  about  to  separate,  she 
made  a  good  effort,  and  said  :  "  Mary,  I  shall 
never  feel  happy  till  you  have  your  right 
place  again.  I  do  not  know  what  could 
have  tempted  me  to  treat  you  so  unkindly. 
I  have  not  had  a  happy  hour  since ;  and 
when  I  tried  to  pray  morning  and  night, 
the  words  choked  me.  Do  say  you  forgive 
me,   and  don't  refuse   to    take   your  place 


SO  THE    TWO    SCHOOL-GIRLS. 

again."  Mary  had  refused  to  do  this,  though 
Mrs.  Carter  had  urged  it  several  times. 

"  I  will  take  the  place,"  she  answered, 
"  when  I  get  above  you  fairly,  but  not  till 
then.  I  had  forgiven  you  long  ago.  I  did 
feel  very  angry  at  first,  and  afterwards  was 
sorry  that  you  did  so  ;  but  let  us  never  say 
any  more  about  it." 

The  girls  parted — Mary  with  the  lightest 
of  hearts — and  Margaret  resolved  to  follow 
Mary's  good  example.  We  may  add  that 
this  example  was  not  lost  upon  others  among 
her  schoolmates,  who  were  led  to  forgive, 
not  perhaps  as  serious  offences,  but  little 
matters  which  are  often  the  root  of  much 
bitterness  among  school-girls  :  and  Margaret 
herself  always  remained  a  firm  friend  to 
Mary,  and  prayed  and  strove  sincerely  for 
the  spirit  of  forgiveness. 


TO    MY    BROTHER.  81 

TO   MY   BROTHER. 

We  are  but  two — the  others  sleep 
Through  death's  untroubled  night ; 

We  are  but  two — oh  let  us  keep 
The  links  that  bind  us,  bright. 

Heart  leaps  to  heart — the  sacred  flood 

That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 
That  good  old  man — his  honest  blood 

Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked — 

Long  be  her  love  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  wo  ; 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

V.  —  F 


82  THE    TOILING    BEES. 

We  are  but  two — be  that  the  bond 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 

Charles  Sprague. 


THE   TOILING  BEES. 

"  Not  to  mvself  alone," 

The  heavy-laden  bee  doth  murmuring  hum — 

"  Not  to  myself  alone  from  flower  to  flower, 

I  rove  the  woods,  the  garden  and  the  bower, 

And  to  the  hive  at  evening  weary  come; 

For  man,  for  man,  the  luscious  food  I  pile 

With  busy  care, 
Content  if  this  repay  my  ceaseless  toil- 
A  scanty  share." 


THE    JOURNEY. 


83 


THE  JOURNEY. 


"No  more  books!  no  more 
lessons  !  hurra !  hurra !"  shout- 
ed Harry  Graham,  as  he  sprang 
_r.«^  into  the  parlor  with  a 
bound,  and  toss- 
ed a  pile  of 
school-books  on 
the  sofa.  "  To- 
morrow is  the 
day,  mother,"  he 
continued,  look- 
ing into  his  mo- 
ther's face  with 
a  smile  of  trium- 
phant joy,  "  to-morrow  is  the  day  that  will 
make  me  happy ;  to-morrow  we  shall  start 
on  our  journey,  and  then  I  shall  be  free  from 
every  lesson  for  a  month.     Oh !  what  good 


84  THE    JOURNEY. 

luck !  I  shall  go  in  an  elegant  steamboat 
across  Lake  Erie,  and  we  shall  be  out  of  sight 
of  land  ;  we  '11  stop  at  handsome  hotels  ;  and 
it  will  be  nothing  but  pleasure  all  the  time." 

"  Yes ;  but  Harry,"  said  his  mother,  smiling, 
"  suppose  you  could  learn  a  lesson  that  would 
be  useful  to  you  all  your  life,  in  the  midst 
of  your  pleasure,  then  would  you  not  be 
willing  to  learn  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  not,  mother,"  replied 
Harry,  after  gravely  considering  for  a  few 
moments ;  "  when  I  have  pleasure,  I  want 
it  all  pleasure,  and  when  I  study,  it  shall  be 
in  earnest;  that  is  my  way  of  thinking." 

"And  so  you  think  happiness  must  be 
laid  aside  when  you  begin  to  learn  anything, 
— and  that  lessons  are  contained  in  nothing 
but  books  ?  We  '11  see,  Harry,  if  some  op- 
portunity will  not  occur  before  long  to  teach 
you  lessons  you  will  be  glad  to  learn,  and 
not  out  of  books  either." 


THE    JOURNEY.  85 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  said  Harry, 
with  an  inquiring  look ;  "  but  perhaps  I  shall 
see  some  of  these  days." 

The  wished-for  to-morrow  came;  every- 
thing was  packed  up ;  the  carriage  was  at 
the  door,  and  with  a  joyful  heart  Harry  took 
his  place  beside  his  mother.  They  had  a 
long  journey  in  viewT,  as  Mrs.  Graham  was 
about  visiting  a  sister  who  lived  in  the  "  far 
West."  Harry  wearied  of  steamboats  and 
railroads,  and  was  glad  to  rest  a  day  or  two, 
or  rather  run  about  upon  his  feet  awhile  in  a 
gay  city,  before  starting  afresh  in  a  steam- 
boat to  cross  Lake  Erie.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon, he  and  his  mother  left  their  hotel, 
and  were  driven  to  the  steamboat ;  already 
many  people  were  there,  and  with  the 
impatience  of  a  child,  Harry  begged  his 
mother  to  walk  out  upon  the  deck;  he 
did  not  like  the  crowded  saloon.  They 
went;  the  sun  was  just  setting,  and  threw 


86  THE    JOURNEY. 

a  vermillion  lustre  upon  the  quiet  waters ; 
Mrs.  Graham  was  observing  it  with  pleasure, 
when  Harry  exclaimed  with  eagerness.  "  Oh  ' 
mother,  what  are  they  doing  here  ?  See  this 
boat  fastened  to  ours,  and  all  those  poor 
people  on  the  top  of  it." 

"  That  is  a  caual-boat,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
moving  nearer,  "  those  poor  people  are  going 
to  set  up  a  home  in  the  West ;  they  have 
not  been  able  to  travel  by  railroad,  for  it 
would  cost  them  too  much.  Look  at  their 
poor,  scanty  furniture  ;  they  are  removing  it 
from  that  boat  to  this." 

"  Then  they  will  be  our  fellow-travellers," 
said  Harry  with  animation.  "  I  am  glad  of 
that;  for,  mother,  look  at  that  poor  little 
girl  sitting  on  a  trunk  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms.  Its  little  feet  are  bare — and  how  cold 
they  both  look ;  there  stands  beside  them  a 
little  boy  about  four  years  old ;  he  must  be 
the  girl's   brother,  for   she  speaks  to  him  : 


THE    JOURNEY.  87 

now  he  is  looking  into  a  basket  he  holds  on 
his  arm ;  he  takes  out  a  small  piece  of  bread 
and  gives  it  to  the  baby ;  now  he  holds  out 
his  hand  and  looks  so  beseechingly  at  his 
sister ;  she  shakes  her  head ;  poor  boy !  he 
goes  away,  and  sits  on  another  trunk,  with 
his  back  to  the  other  two.  Mother,  don't 
you  suppose  he  is  hungry  V* 

"Yes,  dear.  I  suppose  the  family  fur- 
nished their  own  food  before  starting  on 
their  journey,  and  probably  it  is  all  gone 
now.  They  will  not  get  anything  to  eat  on 
this  boat  until  morning,  for  I  find  we  are  not 
to  have  supper,  as  I  thought  we  should." 

"  But  we  can  get  something,  can't  we, 
mother  ?" 

"We  may  perhaps  get  some  crackers  in  an 
hour  or  two ;  after  the  boat  starts.  Every 
one  is  so  busy,  I  shall  not  attempt  it  now." 

"  I  have  two  beautiful  peaches  that  you 


88  THE    JOUENET. 

gave  me,  mother,"  Harry  said,  and  then 
looked  at  the  poor  children  with  a  bright 
tear  in  his  eye.  "See,  the  little  boy  is 
looking  back  at  the  baby  with  such  wishful 
eyes ;  almost  all  the  bread  is  gone.  Now  his 
father  calls  him ;  he  is  going  to  lift  him  on 
our  boat ;  but  first  he  carries  his  basket  like 
a  little  hero,  then  a  box,  then  something 
else;  now  he  comes  himself;  there,  I  can- 
not see  him  now,  he  is  on  the  lower  deck. 
There  comes  the  little  girl,  but  her  mother 
has  taken  the  baby !  They  are  all  on  board 
now !  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy  ! — dear  mo- 
ther,— won't  you  tell  me  how  I  can  get  down 
to  them  ?" 

"Why,  Harry?" 

"  I  must  give  them  my  peaches,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  glowing  cheek,  and  eyes  bright 
with  the  delightful  thought  of  making  the 
poor  children  happy. 


THE    JOURNEY.  89 

"Are  you  hungry,  Harry?  It  will  be 
a  good  while  before  you  can  have  those 
crackers  V 

"lam  only  a  little  hungry ;  but  I  don't 
care ;  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  might  better  be 
me  than  those  children ;  I  can  always  have 
nice  things ;  and  these  beautiful  peaches  will 
be  such  a  delight  to  them ;  won't  they,  dear 
mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy,"  said  his  mother  with 
a  happy,  approving  smile,  "  there  will  be 
delight  all  around,  for  it  gives  me  the 
deepest  joy  to  see  you  deny  yourself  for  the 
sake  of  those  more  needy, — you  are  very 
happy  to  do  so,  and  they  will  be  thankful." 
Mrs.  Graham  showed  the  way,  and  Harry 
saw  the  poor  children's  faces  brighten  so  joy- 
fully when  he  told  them  the  fruit  was  really 
for  them.  "And  now,  Harry,"  said  his 
mother,  "you  have  learned  a  lesson  without 


&0  A    PICTURE. 

a  book;  you  have  learned  that  it  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

"Ah,  yes/'  replied  the  generous  boy, 
"  that  is  a  beautiful  lesson,  and  I  will  never 
forget  it." 


A   PICTUKE. 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife  with  busy  care 
Was  clearing  the  dinner  away; 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 
With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face, 

He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 
Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place ; 


A    PICTURE.  91 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut 

eye, 
"  Don't   smoke !"  said   the   child,   "  how  it 

makes  you  cry !" 

The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the 
floor 
Where  the  shade,  afternoons,  used  to 
steal ; 
The  busy  old  wife  by  the  open  door 
Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantle-tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three : 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 
Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed ; 
His  head  bent  down,  on  the  soft  hair  lay — 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer 
day! 


92  LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER. 

LOYE   ONE   ANOTHER. 

One  morning  in  my  early  life  I  remember 
to  have  been  playing  with  my  younger  sister, 
not  then  three  years  old.  It  was  one  of 
those  bright  mornings  in  the  spring,  that 
bring  joy  and  life  to  the  heart,  and  diffuse 
gladness  and  animation  through  all  the  tribes 
of  living  creatures.  Our  feelings  were  in 
perfect  harmony  with  the  universal  gladness 
of  nature.  Even  now  I  seem  to  hear  my 
little  sister  as  she  followed  me  through  the 
winding  alleys  of  the  garden,  her  cheek 
suffused  with  the  glow  of  health  and  anima- 
tion, and  her  waving  hair  floating  with  the 
wind. 

She  was  my  only  sister,  the  sole  compa- 
nion of  my  childish  sports.  We  were  con- 
stantly together;  and  my  youns^  heart  went 
out  to  hers  with  all  the  affection,  all  the 


LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER.  93 

fondness,  of  which  childhood  is  capable. 
Nothing  afforded  me  enjoyment  in  which 
she  did  not  participate ;  no  amusement  was 
sought  in  which  we  could  not  share  toge- 
ther. 

That  morning  we  had  prolonged  our  play 
till  near  the  hour  of  breakfast,  with  undi- 
minished ardor,  when  at  some  slight  provo- 
cation my  impetuous  nature  broke  forth,  and 
I  struck  my  little  sister  a  blow  with  my  hand. 
She  turned  to  me  with  an  appealing  look, 
and  the  large  tears  came  in  her  eyes  :  her 
heart  was  too  full  to  allow  her  to  speak,  and 
shame  made  me  silent.  At  that  moment 
the  breakfast-bell  summoned  us  away,  and 
we  returned  without  exchanging  a  word. 
The  excitement  of  play  was  over,  and,  as 
she  sat  beside  my  mother  at  breakfast,  I 
perceived  by  glances  at  her,  that  she  was 
pale  and  sad.    A  tear  seemed  ready  to  start 


94  LOYE    ONE    ANOTHER. 

in  her  eye,  which  her  little  self-possession 
could  scarcely  suppress.  It  was  only  when 
my  mother  inquired  if  she  were  ill  that  she 
drank  her  coffee  and  endeavored  to  eat.  I 
was  ashamed  and  grieved,  and  inwardly  re- 
solved to  embrace  the  first  opportunity, 
when  we  were  alone,  to  throw  my  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  entreat  her  forgive- 
ness. 

When  breakfast  was  ended,  my  mother 
retired  with  her  into  her  room,  directing  me 
in  the  meantime  to  sit  down  to  my  lessons. 
I  seated  myself  at  the  window,  and  ran  over 
my  lesson,  but  did  not  learn  it ;  my  thoughts 
were  perpetually  recurring  to  the  scene  in 
the  garden  and  at  table.  It  was  long  before 
my  mother  returned ;  and  when  she  did,  it 
was  with  an  agitated  look,  and  hurried  step, 
to  tell  me  that  poor  Ellen  was  very  ill.  I 
asked  eagerly  if  I  might  go  to  her,  but  was 


LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER.  95 

not  permitted,  lest  I  should  disturb  her.  A 
physician  was  soon  called,  and  every  means 
made  use  of  for  her  recovery,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose. The  disease,  which  was  in  her  head, 
constantly  increased  in  violence,  and  she 
became  delirious.  It  was  not  till  evening 
that  I  was  permitted  to  see  her :  she  was  a 
little  recovered  from  the  severity  of  the 
pain,  and  lay  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  her 
little  hand  resting  on  the  pillow  beneath  her 
head.  How  I  longed  to  tell  her  the  sorrow 
I  felt  for  my  un kindness  to  her  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  how  much  I  suffered  for  it  during 
the  day.  But  I  was  forbidden  to  speak  to 
her,  and  was  soon  taken  out  of  the  room. 
During  that  night  and  the  day  following  she 
grew  worse.  I  saw  her  several  times,  but 
she  was  insensible  of  my  presence.  Once 
indeed  she  showed  some  signs  of  conscious- 


96  LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER. 

ness  and  asked. for  me ;  but  immediately  re- 
lapsed into  her  former  state. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  I  arose 
at  an  early  hour,  and  repaired  to  the  sick- 
room. My  mother  was  sitting  by  the  bed. 
As  I  entered,  she  drew  me  to  her,  and  for 
some  time  was  silent,  while  the  tears  flowed 
fast  down  her  face.  I  first  learned  that  my 
sweet  sister  was  dead,  as  my  mother  drew 
aside  the  curtain,  which  concealed  her  from 
me.  I  felt  as  though  my  heart  would  break. 
The  remembrance  of  her  affection  for  me, 
and  my  last  unkind  deed,  revived  in  my 
mind,  and  burying  my  face  in  the  folds  of 
the  curtain,  I  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

I  saw  her  laid  in  the  coffin,  and  lowered 
into  the  grave.  I  almost  wished  to  lie  down 
with  her,  if  so  I  might  once  more  see  her 
smile,  and  hear  my  forgiveness  pronounced 
in  her  sweet  voice. 


NOON   AND   NIGHT.  97 

"Years  have  passed  away,  and  I  am  now  a 
man,  but  never  does  the  recollection  of  this 
incident  of  my  early  life  fail  to  awaken 
bitter  feelings  of  remorse ;  and  never  do  I 
see  any  of  my  young  friends  exchanging 
looks  or  words  of  anger,  without  thinking 
of  my  pastime  with  my  own  loved  sister. 


MORNING,  NOON  AND  NIGHT. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  a  happy  child, 

Ring  clear  through  the  morning  air, 
By  its  merry  lightness  and  careless  glee, 

Saying  naught  of  grief  had  been  there ; 
And  nothing  seemed  sweeter  then,  to  me, 

Than  the  music  which  breathed  in  its  tone, 
And  I  listened  again  for  the  sounds  so  clear, 

But  the  child  and  the  laugh  were  gone. 

•V.— G 


98  MORNING,   NOON  AND  NIGHT. 

But  I  heard  again  that  thrilling  voice, 

Poured  out  in  a  warbling  song; 
When  the  sun  with   its   glorious   noontide 
light, 

Streamed  the  rainbow  flowers  among. 
And  I  sat  delighted,  each  sound  as  it  came 

Sounding  freer,  more  clear  than  the  last, 
And  I  almost  wept  when  it  died  away 

And  the  child  with  the  song  had  passed. 

But  at  eve,  when  the  wild  bird  sang  her 
song, 

That  gentle  voice  again, 
Came  sweeter  than  ever  I  heard  it  before, 

In  a  low,  soft,  earnest  strain. 
'T  was  the  evening  prayer  of  that  same  glad 
child, 

Than  the  laugh  or  song  more  deep, 
And  it  floated  around  in  a  spirit  strain, 

When  his  lips  were  hushed  in  sleep. 


ANECDOTES  OF   DOGS 


Of  all  the  animals  which  are  subject  to 
man,  there  is  none  which  sustains  to  him 
such  intimate  relations  as  the  Dog;  none 
which  so  generally  and  remarkably  merit 
his  regard  and  confidence.  Many  animals 
exhibit  surprising  traits  of  disposition — ex- 
traordinary sagacity — gratitude  for  favors — 
revenge  for  injuries — consciousness  of  danger 
— warmth  and  even  fidelity  of  attachment 
for  man — but  all  of  these  qualifications  are 

(99) 


100  ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS. 

united  in  the  Dog,  and  he  is  entitled,  above 
all  other  animals,  to  be  called  the  friend  of 
man. 

There  are  upwards  of  a  hundred  different 
varieties  of  this  animal,  and  yet  in  every 
one  of  them  the  general  features  are  the 
same.  Docility,  fidelity  and  generosity  are 
his  chief  characteristics,  and  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  therefore,  that  in  every  con- 
dition of  life  he  is  cherished  and  beloved. 

The  poor  Indian,  whose  only  idea  of 
Heaven  is  of  wide  and  happy  hunting- 
grounds,  firmly  believes  that  his  dog  will  be 
admitted  there  with  him,  and  would  not 
willingly  resign  his  companionship. 

The  dog  has  been  frequently  known  to  die 
of  grief  for  the  loss  of  his  master,  and  an 
incident  is  related  of  one  who  belonged  to  a 
poor  woman  in  Westmoreland,  England. 
The  woman  had  a  young  child  of  which  the 


ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS.  101 

dog  was  very  fond  and  careful,  generally 
sleeping  with  it  in  the  cradle.  While  they 
were  on  a  visit  to  a  neighboring  town  the 
child  died,  and  after  its  burial  the  mother 
returned  home,  but  so  great  was  her  grief 
for  her  child  that  some  clays  elapsed  before 
she  missed  the  dog.  In  vain  did  she  search 
for  him — he  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
Passing  shortly  afterwards  through  the  vil- 
lage where  her  child  died,  she  visited  the 
graveyard,  and  there  in  a  hollow,  which  he 
had  scratched  upon  the  child's  grave,  lay  the 
wasted  form  of  the  faithful  dog. 

The  sagacity  of  dogs  is  so  remarkable  that 
some  have  even  supposed  them  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  reason,  doubting  that  mere  instinct 
could  produce  such  discrimination  as  they 
sometimes  exhibit.  A  shepherd's  clog  in 
Scotland  was  once  directed  by  his  master  to 
seize  one  of  the  flock  that  was  afflicted  with 


102  ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS. 

a  common  distemper.  Lodie,  which  was  the 
animal's  name,  immediately  fastened  the 
sheep  to  the  spot,  and  held  it  while  the 
shepherd  clipped  off  some  of  its  wool  and 
applied  a  healing  balsam ;  this  was  repeated 
in  two  or  three  cases,  and  after  that,  Lodie 
needed  no  directions,  for  he  proceeded  un- 
bidden through  the  flock,  caught  every  dis- 
eased sheep  and  held  it  fast  until  the  cura- 
tive means  had  been  employed  upon  it.  In 
this  way  he  saved  his  master  a  world  of 
trouble. 

The  docility  of  the  dog  is  one  of  its  most 
remarkable  traits.  He  can  be  taught  to  do 
almost  anything — and  doubtless  many  a  little 
reader  has  taught  his  own  dog  to  carry  a 
basket  —  to  fetch  a  little  boat  out  of  the 
water — or  to  do  something  of  the  kind. 

These,  however,  are  very  insignificant 
feats,  compared  with  many  that  are  related 


ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS.  103 

in  books.  Over  a  hundred  dogs  were  so 
trained  that  they  could  perform,  in  concert, 
a  number  of  plays,  representing  scenes  both 
tragic  and  comic,  with  a  life-likeness  that 
astonished  all  beholders.  They  were  ex- 
hibited in  London,  where,  among  other 
strange  things,  they  acted  in  a  mimic  siege. 
They  were  all  dressed  in  soldiers'  uniform 
— standing  on  their  hind  legs  and  walking 
erect — bearing  muskets  in  their  fore-paws. 
Upon  the  stage  was  a  miniature  fortress — 
with  all  the  accompaniments  of  moat  and 
walls  and  ranges  of  ramparts.  These  were 
guarded  by  soldier  dogs — like  the  besieging 
party.  Among  these  were  officers  of  various 
grades,  and  they  held  grave  consultations — 
which  were  interrupted  by  a  shot  from  the 
fortress.  This  was  the  signal  for  an  attack ; 
and  now  followed  all  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  war.     Shots  were  fired — smoke 


104  ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS. 

poured  out  in  volleys — drums  beat — trum- 
pets sounded  — ladders  were  placed  against 
the  walls  and  immediately  crowded  with  the 
assailants,  some  of  whom  were  pushed  into 
the  moat.  At  length  the  forlorn  hope  ad- 
vanced to  the  attack,  and  now  came  the  tug 
of  war,  which,  after  a  most  exciting  and 
extraordinary  scene  of  conflict,  resulted  in 
the  capture  of  the  fortress — whereupon  the 
leader  of  the  victors  tore  down  the  enemy's 
flag  and  hoisted,  in  its  stead,  the  British 
colors — to  the  tune  of  "  God  save  the  King." 
This  is  probably  the  most  wonderful  feat 
ever  performed  by  dogs,  and  we  scarcely 
know  which  to  admire  most,  the  ingenuity 
and  patience  of  their  teachers,  or  the  won- 
derful abilities  of  the  army  of  dogs.  The 
same  dogs  also  represented  a  fashionable 
assembly  —  exhibiting  a  great  variety  of 
costumes,   male   and  female,   and   all   the 


ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS.  105 

etiquette  of  the  best  society.  The  enter- 
tainments included  the  reception  of  a  visitor 
of  high  rank,  and  wound  up  with  a  grand 
fancy  ball !  The  leader  of  the  besieging 
army  was  here  transformed  into  a  Master  of 
Ceremonies,  and  acquitted  himself  to  the 
admiration  of  all  the  spectators. 

Two  dogs,  named  Braque  and  Philax, 
were  wonderfully  taught  by  their  master,  a 
French  gentleman  named  Leonard,  who  ex- 
hibited them  not  for  gain  but  for  scientific 
ends.  These  dogs  exercised  memory — and 
displayed  such  powers  of  discrimination  that 
they  seemed  to  be  guided  by  Keason.  They 
distinguished  colors — words,  and  even  figures 
—  one  of  them  played  very  skilfully  at 
dominoes — and  conducted  the  game  with 
surprising  art.  When  he  could  match  the 
domino  played  by  his  opponent,  he  did  so, 
with  a  joyful  expression  of  face,  and  when 


106  ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS. 

he  could  not  do  so,  he  seemed  distressed  and 
shook  his  head  sadly.  Such  was  the  intel- 
ligence of  these  two  dogs  that  when  it  had 
been  arranged  that  at  three  raps  at  the  door, 
Braque  should  do  a  given  thing,  and  that  at 
five  Philax  should  perform  his  part,  they 
never  made  the  least  mistake. 

Mr.  Hogg,  "  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  as  he 
is  called,  used  to  declare 'that  dogs  knew 
what  was  said  about  them  in  their  hearing. 
He  had  a  dog  named  Hector,  and  one  day 
he  observed  to  his  mother,  "I  shall  go  to 
Bowerhope  to-morrow,  but  Hector  must  not 
go  with  me,  for  he  is  always  quarrelling 
with  other  dogs."  The  dog  was  present,  and 
Hogg  says  he  thought  no  more  of  it  until, 
the  next  morning,  when  he  reached  Bower- 
hope — there  was  Hector  waiting  his  arrival 
—  having  swum  a  full  river  to  reach  the 
spot. 


ANECDOTES    OF    DOGS.  107 

There  is  very  good  evidence,  that  in  Ger- 
many, a  dog  was  taught  to  speak  —  and 
actually  learned  to  pronounce  a  number 
of  words  —  so  that  it  could  call  for  tea, 
coffee,  &c. 

Mrs.  Hall,  the  authoress,  had  a  greyhound 
which  was  so  sensitive  of  discord  in  music, 
that  it  screamed  out  in  apparent  distress  if 
a  false  note  was  struck  on  the  piano,  or  any 
instrument.  We  are  told  also  that  a  Ger- 
man gentleman  succeeded  in  teaching  a 
poodle  dog  to  recognize  false  notes  in  music, 
by  striking  him  with  a  cane  at  every  such 
note — until  finally  the  dog  became  so  expert 
in  detecting  them,  that  the  moment  he  heard 
one,  in  public  or  in  private,  he  would  howl 
out  his  disapproval  instantly.  He  was 
equally  critical  in  new  as  in  familiar  pieces 
of  music.  So  perfect  did  the  poodle's  edu- 
cation in  music  become,  that  he  would  in- 


108        THE    CHILD'S   NEW   YEAR   PRAYER. 

stantly  detect  and  bitterly  denounce,  any 
lack  of  harmony  in  composition — so  that  he 
was  the  terror  of  all  the  composers  in  the 
town  of  Darmstadt.  "When  intentionally 
annoyed  by  performers  he  became  greatly 
excited,  and  if  they  did  not  keep  him  in 
reasonable  bounds,  he  would  become  wild 
and  fly  at  them  with  all  possible  fierceness. 

THE  CHILD'S  PRAYER  FOR  THE 
NEW  YEAR. 

I  kneel  before  thee,  Lord ! 

Oh  !  teach  me  what  to  say  ! 
I  know  I  must  have  help  from  thee 

Even  to  pray. 

The  year  has  just  begun, 

May  it  be  blest  to  me ; 
Oh  !  aid  me,  day  by  day,  to  draw 

Nearer  to  thee. 


THE  CHILDS  NEW  YEAR  PRAYER.   109 

Teach  me  to  understand 

What  thou  would'st  have  me  do : 
To  shun  all  that  is  false,  and  love 

All  that  is  true. 

I  do  not  always  act 

As  rightly  as  I  should ; 
Teach  me  to  hate  all  evil  ways, 

And  make  me  good. 

That,  when  this  year  is  past, 

And  I  before  thee  bow, 
I  may  kneel  down  a  better  child 

Than  I  am  now. 


110     SEAMED,    AND   SCARRED,    AND*  WOUNDED. 


"  SEAMED,  AND  SCARRED,  AND 

WOUNDED." 

(gjj^gp^  hen  you  called  me, 
mother,  I  was  listen- 
ing to  John.  He 
was  telling  me  about 
an  old  veteran  sol- 
dier he  had  talked 
with  in  England,who 
battle  of  Waterloo,  and 
had  been  wounded,  and  what  tales  he  had 
to  tell  about  Spain,  and  all  that.  What  he 
had  to  say  made  me  almost  wish  we  had 
wars  going  on  here,  that  one  might  be  some- 
thing of  a  hero,  and  fight  and  suffer  and  do 
something  for  one's  country." 

"  And  what  was  it  John  called  out  to  say 
to  you  as  we  came  away  ?" 


had  fought  in 


SEAMED,   AND   SCARRED,   AND   WOUNDED.      Ill 

"  He  told  me  I  might  have  fighting  enough 
to  do  any  day.  But  I  know  what  he  meant. 
He  meant  the  e very-day  sort  of  fighting  with 
one's  self,  and  one's  faults.  That  does  very 
well  to  read  about,  but  there's  nothing  very 
exciting  in  that  kind  of  battle." 

"  It  leaves  its  wounds  behind  sometimes." 

"  But  people  don't  show  their  wounds  of 
that  sort,"  answered  Henry,  "  because  it  is 
the  cheerful  people  that  get  the  victory,  and 
they  cover  up  their  troubles  and  their 
wounds,  and  keep  silent  about  their  bat- 
tles." 

"  Miss  Gray,  whom  we  are  going  to  see," 
said  his  mother,  "  bears  about  with  her  the 
scars  and  wounds  of  a  very  severe  struggle." 

"  Oh  yes,  Miss  Gray  was  a  real  heroine. 
She  saved  that  little  child  from  the  fire,  and 
at  the  risk  of  her  own  life.  What  courage 
she  showed  in  going  back  to  the  house  while 


112     SEAMED,   AND   SCARRED,   AND  WOUNDED. 

it  was  in  flames  !  And  everybody  says  she 
had  been  so  calm  through  the  whole,  that 
there  would  have  been  nothing  saved  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her  presence  of  mind." 

"  That  courage  was  nothing  new  to  her. 
She  has  shown  it  under  less  exciting  causes. 
The  first  part  of  her  life  was  passed  in  the 
midst  of  injuries.  At  the  death  of  an  uncle, 
who  had  surrounded  her  with-  everything 
she  could  want,  and  who  had  yielded  to 
every  wish,  she  came  home  to  her  father 
and  mother.  They  died,  and  left  to  her 
care  and  support,  younger  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  brought  them  up,  and  educated 
them,  watched  with  them  when  they  were 
ill,  and  then  her  own  health  failed.  But 
her  courage  never  failed.  The  only  f  wound' 
I  ever  saw  upon  her  then,  was  a  little  con- 
traction upon  her  brow,  and  that  was  caused 
by  severe  pain.    You  can  remember  how  she 


SEAMED,   AND   SCARKED,   AND   WOUNDED.     113 

has  always  been  the  most  joyous  person  in 
the  village." 

"Mother,"  said  Henry,  as  they  reached 
the  door  of  the  cottage  in  the  lane,  "  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  I  would  leave  your  basket 
at  the  door  with  you,  and  wait  in  the  lane, 
till  you  should  come  out.  I  had  an  idea,  I 
had  rather  not  see  a  person  who  had  been 
suffering  so  much.  But  I  should  like  to  go 
in  with  you  now ;  I  am  not  sure  but  Miss 
Gray's  battles  have  been  greater  than  the 
Waterloo  kind." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  Henry  and  his 
mother  came  out  from  the  cottage.  The 
sun  was  just  setting,  and  they  lingered  in 
the  gateway  to  watch  how  he  went  behind 
the  mountains. 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  went  in  to  see  Miss 
Gray,"  said  Henry.  "How  can  she  be  so 
happy,  and  yet  so  helpless?  While  you 
V.  — H 


114     SEAMED,   AND   SCARRED,   AND   WOUNDED. 


were  gone  to  speak  to  her  sister,  she  talked 
with  me  in  such  a  pleasant  way.  She  told 
me  some  funny  stories  about  the  way  they 
lived  on  her  uncle's  farm,  where  they  used 
to  stay,  so  that  I  laughed  till  I  cried.  She 
did  not  say  a  word  to  me  or  to  you  about 
her  troubles.  And  you  did  not  ask  her  about 
them." 

"  No,  I  asked  her  sister  of  those.  If  you 
had  heard  what  she  told  me,  you  would  have 
wondered  still  more  that  Miss  Gray  could 
appear  to  forget  them  for  a  moment." 

"  She  says  I  may  go  to  see  her  often,  and 
she  will  tell  me  more  about  her  adventures, 
because  she  has  been  quite  a  traveller." 

"Yes,  she  travelled  with  a  friend,  who 
was  very  ill,  and  she  saw  more  than  most 
people  do  who  travel  merely  for  their  plea- 
sure." 


SEAMED,   AND   SCARRED,   AND  WOUNDED.      115 

"  And,  mother,  Miss  Gray  has  her  laurels 
around  her,  too." 

u  What  do  you  mean  by  her  laurels  ?" 

"  Why,  the  beautiful  flowers,  that  so  many 
people  have  sent  her,  because  they  loved 
her,  —  and  pleasant  books  for  her  to  read, 
and  delicious  fruit.  She  showed  me  on  a 
broad  green  leaf,  a  few  strawberries  that 
James  Goodwin  had  picked  her  out  of  his 
own  garden.  He  is  one  of  those  rude  boys 
that  I  never  supposed  would  care  for  any- 
body." 

"  Miss  Gray  wins  everybody's  love.  The 
man  whom  we  met  as  we  came  near  the 
cottage,  with  the  log  of  wood  over  his  shoul- 
der, is  the  owner  of  the  cottage,  and  Miss 
Gray's  sister  told  me  that  he  had  been  inva- 
riably kind,  and  eager  to  do  all  he  could  for 
them.  She  was  brought  directly  to  the  cot- 
tage after  the  terrible  fire,  and  he  and  his 


116     SEAMED,   AND   SCARRED,    AND   WOUNDED. 

family  have  devoted  themselves  to  her  com- 
fort." 

"  What  a  pretty  place  it  is,"  said  Henry, 
as  he  looked  back  down  the  lane,  towards 
the  cottage  they  had  left.  "  What  a  beau- 
tiful elm  before  .the  door,  and  a  neat  fence 
by  its  side.  I  like  those  deep  eaves  that 
come  out  so  far  beyond  the  walls." 

"  Nobody  would  think,"  said  his  mother, 
"from  its  quiet  appearance  outside,  that 
there  was  that  kind  of  battle,  as  you  call  it, 
going  on  within ;  and,  as  you  say,  the  cheer- 
ful people  cover  up  what  scars  and  wounds 
they  have. 

"  So  they  have  a  double  victory,  one  over 
the  pain  of  the  wound  itself,  and  the  other 
over  the  appearance  of  suffering  pain ;  and, 
as  you  say,  with  the  victory,  the  laurels 
come  too ;  for  such  conquerors  are  never  left 
desolate  of  love  and  kindness." 


A    FOREST    SCENE.  117 


A  FOREST  SCENE  IN  THE  DAYS  OF 
WICKLIFFE. 

[To  make  the  following  poem,  which  we 
have  selected  for  our  young  readers,  under- 
stood by  them,  we  will  mention  that  there 
was  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  Christian 
Church,  when  the  rulers  in  that  church  had 
great  power,  even  over  kings  as  well  as  peo- 
ple. These  rulers  were  bad  men,  although 
called  priests,  and  one  of  their  worst  acts 
was  to  refuse  to  let  the  Bible  be  read,  and 
to  punish  all  who  read  it,  sometimes  even 
with  death.  This  holy  book  was  then  printed 
in  Latin,  Greek,  or  some  other  language  only 
understood  by  the  learned.  But,  at  last,  it 
was  printed  in  the  English  language,  and 
the  poem  relates  how  a  little  girl,  living  in 
those  days,  got  possession  of  one  of  those 


118  A    FOREST    SCENE. 

English  copies,  and  read  the  Bible  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  How  thankful  should 
we  all  be,  that  this  blessed  Book,  in  which 
are  the  waters  of  eternal  life,  can  now  be 
had  by  every  one,  and  read  by  every  one  in 
Christendom :] 

A  little  child  she  read  a  book 

Beside  an  open  door; 
And,  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

She  wonder' d  more  and  more. 

Her  little  finger  carefully 

Went  pointing  out  the  place ; — 
Her  golden  locks  hung  drooping  down, 

And  shadow'd  half  her  face. 

The  open  book  lay  on  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  on  it  were  bent; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

The  color  came  and  went. 

She  sat  upon  a  mossy  stone 

An  open  door  beside; 
And  round,  for  miles  on  every  hand, 

Stretch'd  out  a  forest  wide. 


A    FOREST    SCENE.  119 

The  summer  sun  shone  on  the  trees, 

The  deer  lay  in  the  shade; 
And  overhead  the  singing  birds, 

Their  pleasant  clamor  made. 

There  was  no  garden  round  the  house, 

And  it  was  low  and  small, — 
The  forest  sward  grew  to  the  door;     - 

The  lichens  on  the  wall. 

There  was  no  garden  round  about, 

Yet  flowers  were  growing  free, 
The  cowslip  and  the  daffodil, 

Upon  the  forest-lea. 

The  butterfly  went  swiftly  by, 

The  bees  were  in  the  flowers; 
But  the  little  child  sat  steadfastly, 

As  she  had  sat  for  hours. 

"  Why  sit  you  here,  my  little  maid  V 

An  aged  pilgrim  spake; 
The  child  look'd  upward  from  her  book, 

Like  one  but  just  awake. 


120  A    FOREST    SCENE. 

Back  fell  her  locks  of  golden  hair, 

And  solemn  was  her  look, 
And  thus  she  answer'd,  witlessly, 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  read  this  book  V 

"  And  what  is  there  within  that  book, 

To  win  a  child  like  thee? — 
Up !  join  thy  mates,  the  merry  birds, 

And  frolic  with  the  bee  t" 

u  Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  leave  this  book, 

I  love  it  more  than  play; — 
I  've  read  all  legends,  but  this  one 

Ne'er  saw  I  till  this  day. 

"  And  there  is  something  in  this  book, 
That  makes  all  care  begone, — 

And  yet  I  weep,  I  know  not  why, 
As  I  go  reading  on  W 

"  Who  art  thou,  child,  that  thou  shouldst  read 

A  book  with  mickle  heed? 
Books  are  for  clerks — the  king  himself 

Hath  much  ado  to  read !" 


A    FOREST    SCENE.  121 

"My  father  is  a  forester — 

A  bowman  keen  and  good; 
He  keeps  the  deer  within  their  bound, 

And  worketh  in  the  wood. 

"  My  mother  died  in  Candlemas, — 

The  flowers  are  all  in  blow 
Upon  her  grave  at  Allonby, 

Down  in  the  dale  below." 

This  said,  unto  her  book  she  turn'd, 

As  steadfast  as  before; 
"  Nay,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "  nay,  not  yet, 

And  you  must  tell  me  more. 

"  Who  was  it  taught  you  thus  to  read  V 

"Ah,  sir,  it  was  my  mother, — 
She  taught  me  both  to  read  and  spell — 

And  so  she  taught  my  brother. 

"  My  brother  dwells  at  Allonby 

With  the  good  monks  alway; 
And  this  new  book  he  brought  to  me, 

But  only  for  one  day. 


122  A    FOKEST    SCENE. 

"  Oh;  sir,  it  is  a  wondrous  book, 
Better  than  Charlemagne, — 

And,  be  you  pleased  to  leave  me  now, 
I'll  read  in  it  again!" 

"Nay,  read  to  me,"  the  pilgrim  sa*id; 

And  the  little  child  went  on, 
To  read  of  Christ,  as  was  set  forth 

In  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

On,  on  she  read,  and  gentle  tears 
Adown  her  cheeks  did  slide ; 

The  pilgrim  sat,  with  bended  head, 
And  he  wept  at  her  side. 

"  I  've  heard,"  said  he,  "  the  Archbishop, 
I  've  heard  the  Pope  of  Rome, 

But  never  did  their  spoken  words 
Thus  to  my  spirit  come ! 

"  The  book,  it  is  a  blessed  book ! 

Its  name,  what  may  it  be?" 
Said  she,  "  They  are  the  words  of  Christ 

That  I  have  read  to  thee; 
Now  done  into  the  English  tongue 

For  folks  unlearn' d  as  we !" 


A    FOREST    SCENE.  123 

'Sancta  Maria!"  said  the  man, 

Our  canons  have  decreed 

That  this  is  an  unholy  book 

For  simple  folk  to  read ! 

"  Sancta  Maria !  Bless'd  be  God  ! 

Had  this  good  book  been  mine, 
I  need  not  have  gone  on  pilgrimage 

To  holy  Palestine ! 

"  Give  me  the  book,  and  let  me  read  ! 

My  soul  is  strangely  stirr'd ; — 
They  are  such  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  ne'er  before  I  heard  I" 

The  little  girl  gave  up  the  book, 

And  the  pilgrim,  old  and  brown, 
With  reverent  lips  did  kiss  the  page, 

Then  on  the  stone  sat  down. 

And  aye  he  read  page  after  page ; 

Page  after  page  he  turn'd ) 
And  as  he  read  their  blessed  words 

His  heart  within  him  burn'd. 


124  A    FOREST    SCENE. 

Still,  still  the  book  the  old  man  read, 
As  he  would  ne'er  have  done  ; 

From  the  hour  of  noon  he  read  the  book, 
Unto  the  set  of  sun. 

The  little  child  she  brought  him  out 
A  cake  of  wheaten  bread; 

But  it  lay  unbroke  at  eventide; 
Nor  did  he  raise  his  head, 

Until  he  every  written  page 
Within  the  book  had  read. 

Then  came  the  sturdy  forester 
Along  the  homeward  track, 

Whistling  aloud  a  hunting  tune, 
With  a  slain  deer  on  his  back. 

Loud  greeting  gave  the  forester 

Unto  the  pilgrim  poor; 
The  old  man  rose  with  thoughtful  brow, 

And  enter'd  at  the  door. 

The  two  had  sat  them  down  to  meat, 
And  the  pilgrim  'gan  to  tell 

How  he  had  eaten  on  Olivet, 
And  drank  at  Jacob's  well. 


A    FOREST    SCENE.  125 

And  then  he  told  how  he  had  knelt 

Where'er  our  Lord  had  pray'd ; 
How  he  had  in  the  garden  been, 

And  the  tomb  where  he  was  laid. 

And  then  he  turn'd  unto  the  book, 

And  read,  in  English  plain, 
How  Christ  had  died  on  Calvary ; 

How  he  had  risen  again; 

And  all  his  comfortable  words, 

His  deeds  of  mercy  all, 
He  read,  and  of  the  widow's  mite, 

And  the  poor  prodigal. 

As  water  to  the  parched  soil, 

As  to  the  hungry,  bread, 
So  fell  upon  the  woodman's  soul 

Each  word  the  pilgrim  read. 

Thus  through  the  midnight  did  they  read, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day; 
And  then  came  in  the  woodman's  son 

To  fetch  the  book  away 


126         THE    WAY    TO    BE    HAPPY. 

All  quick  and  troubled  was  his  speech, 
His  face  was  pale  with  dread, 

For  he  said,  "  The  King  hath  made  a  law 
That  the  book  must  not  be  read, — 

For  it  was  such  a  fearful  heresy, 
The  holy  Abbot  said." 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  WAY  TO  BE  HAPPY. 

'T  is  being,  and  doing, 

And  having,  that  make 
All  the  pleasures  and  pains, 

Of  which  mortals  partake. 
To  be  what  God  pleases, 

To  do  a  man's  best, 
And  to  have  a  good  heart, 

Is  the  way  to  be  blest. 


THE    RAIN.  127 


THE   EAIN. 


Patter,  patter,  pretty  rain. 
Patter  on  my  window-pane — 
Much  I  like  your  pleasing  din, 
But  I  cannot  let  you  in. 
Yonder  spout  go  run  adown, 
With  a  pleasant  gurgling  sound, 
And  the  cistern  quickly  fill — 
Pretty  rain,  I  know  you  will. 
Gently  fall  in  welcome  showers, 
Fall,  like  blessings,  on  the  flowers ; 
Every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass 
Sprinkle,  sprinkle,  as  you  pass ; 
Then,  the  sun  shall  smile  like  love 
On  your  work,  from  heaven  above ; 
And  the  pretty  flowers  the  while, 
Come  and  bask  beneath  his  smile. 
So  falleth  blessings  from  above, 
So  smileth  God,  in  Heavenly  love. 


128 


THE    RAIN. 


Then  ought  we,  with  simple  hearts, 
Day  by  day,  act  well  our  parts, 
That  our  deeds,  like  flowers  in  bloom. 
May  diffuse  a  sweet  perfume. 


I     ^ 


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